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The  Death  of  the  Due  d'Enghien 


LEON  HENNIQUE 

Richard   G.  Badger^    Publisher^   Boston 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/deathofducdenghiOOhenniala 


4 


VOLUME  XX  NOVEMBER -DECEMBER,  I909  NUMBER  6 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUG 
D'ENGHIEN* 

A  drama  in  Three  Scenes 
By  Leon  Henni{:2UE 
Translated  from  the  French  by  F.  Crtdland  Evans 

CHARACTERS 
The  Due  d'Enghien. 
General  Hullin. 
General  Ordener. 
General  Leval. 
General  Fririon. 

Lieutenant  Noirot,  of  the  light-gendarmery. 
Major  Dautencourt,  the  same. 
Baron  de  Grunstein. 
Marquis  de  Thumery. 
Lieutenant  Schmitt. 

Commander  Charlot,  of  the  national  gendarmery. 
Abbe  Weinborn, 
Simon,  the  due's  valet-de-chambre. 
Pierre,  servant  of  the  Due. 

Commandant  Harel,  commander  of  the  Chateau  de  Vincennes. 
Colonel  Guitton,  of  the  ist  regiment  of  Cuirassiers. 
Captain  Molin. 

The  Burgomaster  of  Ettenheim. 
A  Lieutenant  of  Infantry. 
A  Corporal  of  Infantry. 
A  Private. 

The  Princesse  de  Rohan-Rochefort. 
Madame  Harel. 

Colonel-judges,  Officers,  Soldiers. 
The  action  takes  place  in  1804. 

*Copyright,  1909,  by  The  Poet  Lore  Company.    All  rights  reserved. 

401 


402  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUG  D'ENGHIEN 

Scene  I 

At  Strasburg.  The  headquarters  of  General  Leval,  commander  of 
the  division.  Door  in  the  center^  window  to  the  right,  fireplace  to  the  left. 
On  the  wall  a  tapestry  of  wide  strips  of  faded  yellow.  Not  far  from  the  fire- 
place a  table,  on  which  are  papers,  books,  and  several  registers.  An  argand 
light  illuminates  the  table.  Here  and  there  chairs  of  dissimilar  patterns. 
Nothing  on  the  mantel.  The  only  thing  on  the  wall  is  an  engraved  and 
colored  portrait;  it  is  of  the  First  Consul. 

General  Leval  and  General  Fririon  are  discovered.  Leval,  in 
uniform,  is  sitting  down,  his  feet  toward  the  fire,  a  newspaper  on  his  knees, 
his  back  toward  the  table.  Fririon,  a/jo  in  uniform,  a  candlestick  in  his 
hand,  is  standing  beneath  the  portrait. 

Fririon. —  It  certainly  looks  like  him.  It  certainly  would  be  recognized. 
Only  —  Oh,  you  could  say  it  better  than  I  could. 

Leval. —  Only  what  ? 

Fririon. —  Only  I  don't  see  the  haughty  countenance,  the  domineering 
look,  the  characteristic  curl  of  the  lip,  nor  the  unforgettable  aspect  of  his 
whole  person.  And  then,  theTirst  Consul  is  no  longer  slender.  And  he 
never  had  that  meek  expression  in  all  his  life.  (Placing  the  candle  on  the 
mantel.)     Have  you  ever  seen  him  ? 

Leval. —  Yes,  once,  for  a  moment,  at  St.  Cloud,  some  years  ago. 

Fririon. —  Oh,  I  see.     If  it  was  some  years  ago,  I  am  not  surprised. 

Leval. —  And  what  do  you  think !     He  was  Balking  with  Moreau. 

Fririon. —  With  Moreau  ? 

Leval. —  Yes. 

Fririon. —  They  weren't  as  yet  jealous,  then  ? 

Leval. —  Evidently  not. 

Fririon  {sitting). —  Poor  Moreau.  {A  short  pause.)  There  is  a  fellow 
who  can  boast  of  stupidly  throwing  away  his  character  as  an  honest  man! 

Leval. —  It  really  was  hardly  worth  while  to  beat  the  Austrians  at  Hoch- 
stet  and  Hohenlinden  in  order  to  sink  down  to-day  in  a  conspiracy  of  emi- 
grees,  in  company  with  a  Cahoudal! 

Fririon  {with  a  sweeping  gesture  of  discouragement).  He  was  ambitious 
or  jealous,  whichever  you  like.     They've  locked  him  up  in  the  Temple  ? 

Leval. —  Yes,  in  the  Temple. 

Fririon. —  And  Pichegru  } 

Leval. —  In  the  Temple. 

Fririon. —  A  nice  end  for  the  conqueror  of  Holland!     Isn't  it,  Leval .? 

Leval  {bitterly). — ^Yes,  yes,  a  very  nice  end.     A  superb  end.     {He  takes 


LEON  HENNIQUE  403 

up  the  paper  that  is  on  his  knees,  glances  at  it,  and  then  throws  it  on  the  table, 
without  having  read  anything.  A  silence,  during  which  the  rain  is  heard 
without.) 

Fririon. — How  it  rains  in  this  damned  Strasburg! 

Leval  {getting  up  and  beginning  to  pace  the  room). — The  gales  of  Ven- 
tose.     {Another  silence.) 

Fririon. —  Say,  Leval,  they  must  have  been  wading  in  mud  for  a 
fortnight  in  the  camp  at  Boulogne! 

^p^,  Leval. —  At  the  camp  at  Boulogne  and  some  other  places  on  the  roads. 
The  devil  take  me  if  the  envoy  we  are  waiting  for  can  get  here  to-night. 
What  time  is  it  ? 

Fririon. —  One  hour  before  morning,  I  imagine. 

Leval  {stopping  to  consult  his  watch). — ^That's  right.  An  hour,  only 
an  hour.     {He  resumes  his  march.     A  silence.) 

^^1^  A- Fririon  {getting  up  in  his  turn). —  There's  nothing  that  makes  me  so 
impatient  as  waiting  for  some  one  who  doesn't  turn  up. 

Leval. —  Why  ? 

Fririon. — ^What,  doesn't  it  seem  strange  to  you  to  be  summoned  by  a 
secret  order  from  the  ministry  and  to  wait  here  all  expectation  without 
knowing  what  they  want  with  you  ? 

Leval. —  No. 

Fririon. —  You're  lucky. 

Leval. —  Do  you  want  the  paper  ?  {He  picks  it  up  and  hands  it  to 
Fririon.  ) 

Fririon{taking  it  and  placing  himself  under  the  light). — ^Any  new  details 
about  the  conspiracy  ^. 

\\!^  Leval  {sitting  at  the  table  and  opening  a  register). — ^Yes,  on  the  first  page. 
{A  silence.) 

Fririon. —  Here!  Cahoudal  and  his  accomplices  were  going  to  attack 
the  First  Consul's  coach  on  the  road  to  Malmaison. 

Leval  {without  raising  his  eyes  from  the  register). — The  place  wasn't 
badly  chosen,  it  seems  to  me. 

Fririon. —  No,  it  wasn't  bad. 

Leval  {his  eyes  still  on  the  register). — Have  they  learned  why  Captain 
Bernard  blew  his  brains  out  ? 

'^W%  Fririon. —  For  some  woman.  Well,  well,  I  see  here  that  a  prince  of  the 
blood  intended  to  be  present  at  the  attack. 

Leval. —  At  what  attack  ? 

Fririon. —  At  the  attack  on  the  First  Consul. 

Leval. —  Pardon,  I  wasn't  thinking.     Yes,  that's  so.     A  prince  — 


404  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUG  D'ENGHIEN 

Fririon. —  Do  they  know  which  ? 

Leval. —  No,  not  yet.  You  saw  that  Cahoudal  had  sixty  thousand 
francs  on  him  when  he  was  arrested  ? 

Fririon. —  England  is  always  doing  things  like  that.  But,  Leval,  don't 
you  think  it  would  have  been  the  funniest  thing  in  the  whole  affair  if  the 
conspirators  had  let  themselves  be  beaten  off  by  the  consul's  guard  ? 

Leval. —  Unfortunately,  when  a  dozen  horsemen  are  attacked  by  a 
hundred  determined  ruffians,  they  aren't  in  much  of  a  position  to  hold  their 
own;    at  least  in  my  opinion. 

Fririon. —  A  hundred!     Would  there  have  been  a  hundred  1 
Leval. —  Not  one  less. 

Fririon. —  Oh,  why  then  the  First  Consul  made  a  blamed  lucky  escape. 
Leval  {looking  again  at  the  register). —  A  mighty  lucky  escape. 
Fririon. —  But  to  tell  the  truth,  the  thing  I  can't  understand  is  what 
idea  this  band  of  Chouans  had  in  wanting  to  assassinate  him.     For,  on  the 
whole,  with  Bonaparte  dead,  the  republic  would  be  none  the  less  in  force. 

Leval. —  Who    knows,  my    boy .?     Now,  imagine.     France    and    all 
Europe  watching.     If  just  at  this  time  the  First  Consul  —  But  hush! 
Fririon. —  Why,  what  is  it  ? 

Leval  {listening). —  I  think  a  carriage  is  stopping  out  there  at  our  door. 
{Both    listen.) 

{Enter  a  soldier.) 

Soldier  {announcing). —  Citizen-General  Ordener. 

{Enter  Ordener  in  civilian  dress:  long  chestnut-colored  coat,  chestnut- 
colored  trousers,  Souvaroff  boots,  high  hat.  Leval  advances  some  steps 
toward  Ordener.     The  soldier  disappears.     All  salute.) 

Ordener. —  Please  excuse  me  for  appearing  before  you  like  this,  citizens, 
but  I  have  just  come  from  Paris,  by  vile  roads,  with  orders  that  I  have  to 
follow  out  at  once.  {To  Leval.)  You  are  General  Leval,  are  you  not, 
Commander  of  the  Strasburg  Division  ? 

Leval. —  I  am  General  Leval,  and  here  is  General  Fririon.  Please  sit 
down  and  warm  yourself,  citizen.  We  wait  your  pleasure.  (Ordener 
lays  his  mantle  on  a  chair.) 

Ordener. —  No  one  must  hear  the  conversation  we  are  going  to  have. 
Please  dismiss  the  soldier  who  announced  me. 

Leval  {opening  the  door  and  addressing  the  soldier). —  I  won't  need  you 
any  longer;  return  to  the  barracks.  {Sound  of  departing  steps;  Leval 
closes  the  door.) 

Ordener  {sitting).  —  Now  this  is  what  I  have  to  say  to  you.  (Leval  and 
Fririon  sit.     To  Leval.)     You  are  to  take  to  Schelestadt  three  hundred 


LEON  HENNIQUE  405 

men  of  the  twenty-sixth  dragoons.     They  must  be  at  Rheinau  at  eight  in 
the  evening. 

Leval. —  Very  well,  citizen-general. 

Ordener. —  You  will  also  send  to  Rheinau  fifteen  lightermen,  who  will 
arrive  at  the  same  time,  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening.     In  order  to  do  this 
they  will  leave  by  the  post  or  on  horses  of  the  light  artillery. 
Leval. —  Good. 

Ordener. —  These  troops  will  be  supplied  with  cartridges  and  they  will 
be  given  bread  for  four  days. 
Leval. —  Good. 

Ordener. —  You  will  join  to  the  detachments  I  have  mentioned,  four 
companies  of  gendarmes  with  a  lieutenant  and  a  captain.  {Gesture  of  assent 
from  Leval.) 

Fririon. —  Pardon,  citizen-general,  but .     May  we  know 

Ordener  {interrupting  him). —  I  am  about  to  inform  you.  The  object 
of  the  expedition  is  to  surround  the  city  of  Ettenheim  and  to  arrest  the  Due 
d'Enghien. 

Leval. —  What,  on  neutral  territory!  Under  the  nose  of  the  Grand  Duke 
of  Baden! 

Ordener. —  On  neutral  territory. 
Fririon. —  The  devil! 

Ordener. —  It  is  the  orders  of  the  First  Consul.  General  Caulaincourt, 
who  will  arrive  to-morrow  morning,  will  go  on  his  part  with  two  hundred 
men  to  Offembourg,  where  he  will  arrest  several  agents  of  the  English 
government. 

Fririon. —  Why,  was  the  Due  d'Enghien  the  prince  who  was  mixed  up 
with  the  attempt  to  assassinate  the  First  Consul  ? 

Ordener. —  I  do  not  know,  citizen-general.     But  so  it  is  rumored. 
Leval. —  Are  these  all  the  orders  you  have  to  give  me  ^ 
Ordener. —  No,  citizen.     When  General  Caulaincourt  and  I  have  gone, 
you  will  send  three  hundred  cavalry  and  four  pieces  of  artillery  to  Kehl, 
then  you  will  dispatch  a  cavalry  post  to  Wildstadt.     You  never  know  what 
will  happen. 

Leval. —  Good. 

Ordener. —  At  Neuf-Brisach  you  will  also  have  to  transfer  a  hundred 
men  to  the  right  bank  of  the  Rhine,  a  hundred  men  and  two  pieces  of  can- 
non.    The  troops  are  to  exact  nothing  from  the  people. 

Leval. —  But  the  money,  citizen-general.  The  money  necessary  for  the 
cost  of  the  expedition,  where  shall  I  ask  for  it  ? 

Ordener. —  Ask  me.  I  have  all  that  is  necessary  in  my  carriage.  Gen- 
eral Fririon  will  accompany  me  to  Ettenheim.     {A  short  silence.) 


4o6  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUG  D'ENGHIEN 

Leval. —  Is  this  all,  citizen  ? 

Ordener. —  This  is  all.  I  will  remain  no  longer  except  to  hand  you  the 
despatches  that  I  am  carrying.  (Opening  his  coat  and  taking  out  papers.) 
There  they  are,  citizen-general;  they  will  verify  what  I  have  said. 

Leval  {taking  the  papers). —  Thank  you.  {He  opens  them  and  begins 
to  read.     The  rain  is  still  heard  without.) 

Scene  H 

The  dining-room  of  the  Due  d'Enghien  at  Ettenheim.  Two  doors  left, 
'fireplace  right.  Some  weapons  of  the  chase  on  brackets  above  the  fireplace. 
At  the  back  two  high  windows,  through  which  can  be  distinguished  the  leafless 
trees  of  a  little  park.  They  are  beginning  to  appear  against  the  first  white- 
ness of  a  morning  sky.  In  the  center  of  the  room  is  a  table  set  for  breakfast. 
The  furniture  is  very  simple.  The  day  brightens  a  little.  Pierre  is  setting 
the  table.     Enter  SiMON  quickly. 

Simon. —  Well,  Pierre,  are  we  ready  .?  What!  Six  o'clock  struck  and 
you  haven't  finished  setting  the  table  .'' 

Pierre. —  No,  Master  Simon,  not  yet.     But  in  a  moment. 

Simon. —  You  know,  don't  you,  that  when  monseigneur  goes  hunting, 
he  likes  to  breakfast  at  once  ? 

Pierre. —  Yes,  but 

Simon. —  Come,  come,  my  man.  You  really  must  be  a  little  more 
lively. 

Pierre. —  I  am  lively.     It  isn't  liveliness  that  I'm  in  need  of. 

Simon. —  Go  along.     Hurry. 

Pierre. —  See  here.  Master  Simon,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  this 
morning .?  Has  monseigneur  got  up  ^.  Has  monseigneur  no  more  need  of 
your  services  that  you  drop  on  me  like  a  cannon  ball } 

Simon. —  Monseigneur  is  up,  shaved  and  dressed. 

Pierre. —  In  that  case,  I  am  ready.  Everything  will  be  ready  in  five 
minutes.  {Counting  the  places.)  One,  two,  three,  four,  and  Lieutenant 
Schmitt  makes  five.  There,  you  see.  The  plates  are  ready.  {Walking 
around  the  table  and  placing  knives  and  forks.)     Now  tell  me 

Simon. —  What .? 

Pierre. —  Is  monseigneur  going  hunting  in  the  Black  Forest  ."* 

Simon. —  Yes. 

Pierre. —  Alone .? 

Simon. —  No,  with  M.  le  Baron  de  Grunstein. 

Pierre. —  Do  you  know  when  they  are  coming  back  .? 


LEON  HENNIQUE  407 

Simon. —  Why,  probably  in  a  week,  as  they  usually  do.  What  do  you 
want  to  know  for  ? 

Pierre. —  Because  I  know  some  one  who  will  be  nicely  bored  waiting 
for  him. 

Simon  {mocking  him). —  Ah,  you  know  some  one 

Pierre. —  Yes.     A  lady. 

Simon  {still  mocking  him). —  Well,  well! 

Pierre. —  Madame  la  Princesse  de  Rohan. 

Simon  {changing  his  tone). —  Well,  what  is  that  to  you  .? 

Pierre. —  Nothing;  but  if  I  were  Mgr.  le  Due  d'Enghien,  it  would  be 
quite  another  matter.  I  wouldn't  go  hunting!  I  wouldn't  leave  Madame 
la  Princesse  in  this  way  for  eight  days.     She  is  too  pretty. 

Simon. —  You  wouldn't! 

Pierre. —  No. 

Simon. —  Really  ? 

Pierre. —  As  sure  as  I  am  saying  it  to  you. 

Simon  {reassuming  his  mocking  tone). — What  an  honor  for  Madame 
la  Princesse! 

Pierre. —  This  isn't  any  great  honor,  I  know.  But  for  the  daughter  of  a 
cardinal 

Simon. —  Hein  .?     What's  that  you're  saying  .? 

Pierre. —  Why,  don't  you  know  ? 

Simon  {coldly). —  No. 

Pierre. —  W^hy,  it's  all  over  the  country  side.  Master  Simon.  And  lots 
more  along  with  it. 

Simon. —  What .? 

Pierre. —  You  know  as  well  as  I  do. 

Simon. —  I   swear 

Pierre. —  Come  now! 

Simon. —  Oh,  chut.  You  are  an  ass,  Pierre.  When  I  say  I  don't  know, 
I  don't.     Why  should  I  lie  to  you  .?     {A  short  silence.) 

Pierre. —  Well,  people  say  that  Madame  la  Princesse  and  monseigneur 
are  married.     And  they  don't  want  any  one  to  know  about  it. 

Simon. —  Why  ? 

Pierre. —  Oh,  Lord! 

Simon. —  Why  shouldn't  they  want  it  known  .? 

Pierre. —  Why  —  very  likely  on  account  of  what  I  just  now  told  you. 

Simon. —  That  Madame  de  Rohan  is  a  cardinal's  daughter  ? 

Pierre. —  Yes.  It  seems  that  the  father  and  grandfather  of  monseigneur 
wouldn't  be  overjoyed  to  learn {With  a  gesture  to  Simon.)     Listen, 


4o8  THE  DEATH  OF  THE   DUC  D'ENGHIEN 

why  you  can  easily  see,  Master  Simon.  And  faith,  why  even  I  —  Look 
what  I  am,  only  a  servant  —  but  if  I  had  a  son 

Simon. —  Do  you  want  me  to  give  you  a  piece  of  advice,  Pierre  ? 

Pierre. —  Go  ahead. 

Simon. —  First,  do  you  want  to  remain  here  ? 

Pierre  {the  napkins  in  his  hand). —  I  certainly  do,  as  I  am  a  true  royalist 
—  and  because  I  love  monseigneur. 

Simon. —  Good.  Then  hereafter  don't  meddle  with  what  doesn't 
concern  you.     Understand  ^     (A  short  silence.) 

Pierre  (placing  the  last  napkin  on  a  plate). — ^The  table  is  ready.  Master 
Simon. 

{Enter  the  Princess  de  Rohan.     The  two  servants  turn  around  quickly.) 

The  Princesse. —  It  is  I,  Simon.     Good  morning! 

Simon. —  Madame  la  Princesse 

The  Princesse. —  Has  his  highness  appeared  t 

Simon. —  Not  yet,  Madame  la  Princesse;  but  his  highness  ought  to  be 
nearly  ready  to  leave  his  room. 

The  Princesse. —  Please  go  and  tell  him  that  I  am  here  and  that  I 
desire  to  wish  him  a  safe  journey.     It  isn't  seven  yet  ? 

Simon. —  It  has  hardly  struck  six.  Does  Madame  la  Princesse  wish 
me  to  take  her  cloak  ? 

The  Princesse. —  Yes.  {Removing  her  mantle.)  There,  thank  you. 
Place  it  on  a  chair. 

Simon. —  Ah,  here  is  monseigneur  himself. 

{Enter  the  Due  d'Enghein.     He  is  in  hunting  costume.) 

The  Due  {as  he  enters ^  in  a  low  voice  to  Simon). —  Who  is  there  } 

Simon  {also  in  a  low  voice). —  Madame  la  Princesse  de  Rohan.  {The 
Due  advances  quickly,  while  SiMON  disappears.) 

The  Due. —  You,  princesse! 

The  Princesse. —  Aren't  you  going  away  for  some  days  .'' 

The  Due  {kissing  her  hand). —  It  is  just  like  you  to  go  to  all  this  trouble. 
No  one  is  more  kind  or  charming. 

The  Princesse. —  You  are  pleased  with  me  ? 

The  Due. —  Am  I  pleased  with  you  ."*  Will  you  take  breakfast  with  me  .^ 
Please  do. 

The  Princesse. —  Why 

The  Due. —  What  is  it  ? 

The  Princesse. —  Why,  I'm  not  hungry  at  this  hour. 

The  Due. —  Well,  princesse,  you  will  watch  us.  Won't  you  get  an  appe- 
tite by  seeing  others  eat  ? 


LEON  HENNIQUE  409 

The  Princesse  {smiling). —  So  it's  said.     Do  you  think  so  ? 

The  Due  (also  smiling). —  I  am  sure  of  it. 

The  Princesse. —  In  that  case,  I  accept  your  invitation. 

The  Due  (to  Pierre). —  You  have  heard  .'' 

Pierre. —  Yes,  monseigneur. 

The  Due. —  Bestir  yourself  to  serve  us  as  soon  as  possible.  Has  no  one 
else  come  down  yet  t 

Pierre. —  I  have  seen  only  M.  le  Baron  de  Grunstein,  monseigneur. 

The  Due. —  All  right.     You  may  go,  my  good  Pierre.     {Exit  Pierre.) 

The  Due. —  Will  you  let  me  embrace  you  now, —  and  tell  you  how  much 
I  love  you  ^. 

The  Princesse  {in  his  arms). —  I  also,  I  love  you,  my  Henri. 

The  Due. —  I  longed  to  take  you  in  my  arms  just  now,  when  I  came  in. 
But  it  seems  as  though  we  were  fated,  there  is  always  some  one  to  restrain  us. 
We  would  be  so  happy  now,  if  we  could  live  with  a  little  more  comfort  and 
do  as  we  please. 

The  Princesse. —  Yes. 

The  Due. —  And  indeed,  peace,  our  peace,  will  be  well  deserved,  if  it 
ever  decides  to  come  to  us,  some  day  or  other.  You  know  I  have  little 
enough  of  it  when  I  have  to  wait  until  the  servants  go  out  of  the  room  before 
I  can  embrace  my  wife.  And,  my  faith,  now  that  I  soon  have  to  go  to  Lon- 
don   

The  Princesse. —  You  are  going  to  leave  me  again  .^ 

The  Due. —  I  so  want  to  tell  my  grandfather  everything. 

The  Princesse. —  The  Prince  de  Conde! 

The  Due.  —  Yes,  to  him  first.  Because  if  he  accepts  our  marriage, 
my  father  would  certainly  have  to  act  with  bad  grace  not  to  accept  it  also. 
{A  silence.)     Well  ?     {Another  silence.)     You  do  not  seem  satisfied. 

The  Princesse. —  Yes,  I  am  satisfied,  I  am  very  well  satisfied;  your 
intention  is  so  generous.     But 

The  Due. —  But  what  ? 

The  Princesse. —  I  fear  you  will  only  draw  on  yourself  a  multitude  of 
vexations. 

The  Due. —  A  multitude,  a  multitude 

The  Princesse. —  And  one  will  be  that  you  very  soon  regret  this  step. 

The  Due.—  Why  ? 

The  Princesse. —  Why.''  Because  —  without  a  doubt,  it  will  be  the 
cause  of  a  rupture  between  yourself  and  your  family.  {A  gesture  from  the 
Juc.)     Your  lineage  is  so  pure. 

The  Due. —  Nonsense! 


410  THE   DEATH  OF  THE  DUG  D'ENGHIEN 

The  Prtncesse. —  Oh,  no,  Henri.  Only  think,  and  you  will  see  that  it 
is  better  to  continue  living  as  we  have  lived  up  to  to-day.  It  is  sometimes 
disagreeable.     But  what  can  you  expect  ? 

The  Due. —  Why,  you  admit  yourself  that  it  is  sometimes  disagreeable, 
and  you  don't  want  me  to  try 

The  Princesse. —  The  remedy  will  be  worse  than  the  disease.  And 
then 

The  Due—  What  ? 

The  Princesse. —  And  then  —  notwithstanding  the  secrecy  of  our  mar- 
riage, are  you  certain  that  your  father  and  grandfather  have  not  already 
learned  of  it  ^ 

The  Due. —  It  may  be.  But,  if  so,  why  haven't  I  received  some  sign  of 
disapproval  f 

The  Princess. —  Because  in  their  affection  for  you,  they  are  perhaps 
pretending  to  know  nothing.  Who  knows  ?  Whatever  they  may  have  in 
their  minds,  they  are  perhaps  waiting  to  say  to  you  face  to  face. 

The  Due. —  It  is  very  unlikely!     Now 

The  Princesse. —  I  may  be  wrong;  but  for  a  long  time  I  have  imagined 
that  the  Abbe  Weinborn,  who  married  us 

The  Due. —  Weinborn  ? 

The  Prtncesse. —  It  is  so  easy  to  be  deceived  in  thinking  everything 
all  right. 

The  Due. —  I  am  as  sure  of  Weinborn  as  of  myself. 

The  Princesse. —  Are  you  as  sure  of  the  witnesses  who  assisted  us  ? 

The  Due. —  Of  Grunstein  ?  Of  Thumery  .?  They  are  gentlemen, 
my  friends  and  my  guests.  Why  should  they  betray  me  f  But  what  does 
it  matter .?  Moreover,  I  like  to  act  straightforwardly.  People  will  finally 
conclude  that  I  am  ashamed  of  you.  Besides,  it  is  not  honorable  to  take 
a  wife  and  then  not  acknowledge  her.  I  shall  tell  my  grandfather  every- 
thing. 

The  Princesse. —  Take  care! 

The  Due. —  I  love  you  and  I  wish  to  prove  my  affection  to  you.  I  have 
delayed  too  long  already. 

The  Princesse. —  Once  more  I  say,  take  care ! 

The  Due. —  What  will  come,  let  it  come. 

The  Princesse. —  You  mustn't  say  that,  it's  not  right,  Henri.  Oh,  it 
isn't  at  all  right.  Moreover,  there  may  perhaps  be  a  way,  not  of  arrange- 
ing  matters,  but  of  making  them  more  endurable.  It  might  be  this  way. 
If  your  grandfather  cannot  be  made  to  think  kindly  of  our  marriage,  we 
could  promise  him  never  to  publish  it.     For  you  see,  Henri,  it  is  his  pride 


r  LEON  HENNIQUE  411 

f 

which  must  not  be  wounded,  above  all  his  pride.  You  love  me,  don't  you  ? 
You  have  shut  your  eyes  to  the  disproportion  of  our  marriage.  He,  who 
does  not  know  me,  and  who  consequently  will  not  see  in  me 

The  Due. —  Nonsense! 

The  Princesse. —  You  are  right.     But  believe  me  all  the  same.     Take 
care  not  to  ruin  everything.     This  would  be  doubly  unfortunate,  because  of 
these  evil  times,  when  the  family  of  France  has  already  been  so  afflicted 
Promise  me  to  do  nothing  without  the  greatest  caution. 

The  Due. —  I  will  promise  everything  you  wish. 

The  Princesse. —  Then  I,  in  my  turn,  am  satisfied.     Kiss  me. 

{Enter  Baron  de  Grunstein,  in  hunting  costume,  and  /A^AbbeWein- 
BORN.      They  how  profoundly  before  the  duke  and  the  princesse.) 

The  Due  {as  they  enter,  without  changing  his  place). —  Good  morning, 
abbe.     Good  morning,  my  dear  Grunstein.     Have  you  slept  well  '^. 

Grunstein. —  Splendidly,  monseigneur. 

The  Due. —  As  for  myself,  I  dreamed  that  we  were  once  more  fighting 
the  Republicans  and  I  heard  the  rattle  of  musketry  all  night. 

Grunstein. —  God  grant,  monseigneur,  that  your  dream  may  soon  come 
true! 

The  Due. —  I  wish  the  same  as  you,  Grunstein.     {They  continue  their 
conversation  in  a  low  voice.) 

Weinhorn  {who  has  approached  the  princesse.) —  Monseigneur  then  is 
going  away  again  for  a  few  days  ? 

The  Princesse. —  Yes,  again,  M.  I'Abbe.     But  you  know  that  I  play 
chess,  and  that  I  am  very  fond  of  listening  to  you  read  aloud. 

Weinborn. —  I  shall  be  at  your  orders,  madame. 

{Enter  the  Marquis  de  Thumery,  Lieutenant  Schmidt,  and  in  a  few 
moments  Pierre,  who  begins  to  serve  breakfast.) 

The  Due. —  You   are  welcome,  gentlemen.     {To  Thumery.)     Well, 
Marquis,  have  you  an  appetite  ^ 

Thumery. —  As  if  I  were  twenty,  monseigneur.     A  fine  day  for  hunting, 
isn't  it  ? 

The  Due. —  For  hunting  or  for  war,  marquis;  unfortunately — 

Schmitt  {to  the  princesse). —  I  did  not  expect  the  honor  of  seeing  Madame 
la  Princesse  this  morning. 

The  Princesse. —  What  time  did  you  arrive  yesterday  ^ 

Schmitt. —  At  midnight,  Madame  la  Princesse.     It  is  for  that  reason 
that  I  have  not  been  able  to  offer  my  respects  to  you. 

The  Due. —  Well,  Schmitt,  what  news  do  you  bring  from  London  .? 
Have  you  seen  the  Comte  d'Artois  .? 


412  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUG  D'ENGHIEN 

Schmitt. —  Yes,  monseigneur,  I  have  seen  monsieur,  and  also  his  high- 
ness, the  Due  de  Berry;  both  of  them  appeared  to  me  out  of  spirits,  they 
couldn't  be  more  out  of  spirits.     La  Vendee  has  not  kept  its  promises. 

The  Due. —  Aren't  the  English  at  least  disposed  to  push  the  war  with 
vigor  ? 

Schmitt. —  Yes,  monseigneur.  The  channel  and  the  North  Sea  are 
already  full  of  vessels.  All  the  French  ports  are  blockaded  from  the  Escaut 
to  the  Somme. 

Thumery. —  But  if  Monsieur  Bonaparte  sends  out  his  flotilla  from 
Boulougne,  what  then  ? 

Schmitt. —  London  is  not  worried.  There  are  more  than  twenty 
thousand  volunteers  under  arms. 

The  Due  {to  whom  Pierre  has  spoken  in  an  undertone). —  Let  us  sit 
down,  gentlemen.  We  will  continue  ou»-  conversation  as  we  eat.  {He  con- 
ducts the  Princess  to  the  place  of  honor.  To  Thumery.)  Marquis,  will 
you  sit  at  the  left  of  Madame  de  Rohan  }  You,  abbe,  in  front.  Grunstein 
by  me  and  Schmitt  by  Thumery.      {All  remain  standing.) 

Weinhorn  {making  the  sign  of  the  cross.)  — In  nomine  Patrts,et  Filiiy  et 
Sptriti  Sancti. 

All. —  Amen. 

Weinhorn. —  Benedicite. 

All. —  Dominus. 

Weinhorn. —  Benedic,  Domine,  nos  et  hcec  tua  dona  quop  se  tua  largitate 
sumus  sumpturi.     Per  Christum  Domtnum  nostrum. 

All. —  Amen.  (They  sit.  There  is  a  short  silence  during  which  each 
one  unfolds  his  napkin.     Pierre  commences  to  serve.) 

The  Princesse. —  You  say,  M.  Schmitt,  that  London  is  not  worried, 
that  they  have  more  than  twenty  thousand  volunteers  under  arms  ? 

Schmitt. —  Yes,  Madame  la  Princesse.  I  heard  it  from  the  prime  min- 
ister himself,  M.  Addington,  at  the  house  of  his  highness,  the  Comte  d'Artois. 

The  Due. —  But  to  rise  this  way  en  masse,  England  must  be  frightened. 
She  takes  these  Boulogne  preparations  seriously  ? 

Schmitt. —  Without  a  doubt,  monseigneur.  More  than  this,  the  army 
at  Boulogone  practises  seacraft  every  day,  so  that  it  will  take  only  a  single 
night  with  a  stiff  breeze  to  cross  to  Dover.  And  it  appears  that  in  an  en- 
gagement they  had  before  Wimereux,  the  French  gunboats  behaved  them- 
selves brilliantly. 

Grunstein. —  The  devil!  Can  it  be  that  this  bandit  Bonaparte  will 
reach  England  ? 

The  Due. —  Grunstein,  I  am  positive  that  he  will.  He  has  such  genius 
and  such  good  luck.     He  is  a  great  man. 


LEON  HENNIQUE  413 

Thumery  {protesting). —  Oh,  oh,  monseigneur.       How  can  you  say  that  ? 

The  Due. —  I  detest  him,  but  believe  me,  Thumery,  he  is  a  great  man. 
You  will  see  him  humiliate  England.     You  will  see. 

Thumery.  —  Heaven  preserve  us  from  such  a  calamity,  monseigneur, 
for  our  affairs  are  going  very  badly  just  now  in  Paris.  There  is  Georges 
arrested,  poor  Georges,  so  brave,  so  devoted  to  his  cause.  M.  de  Polignac 
and  De  Riviere  have  also  been  arrested. 

The  Due. —  And  Pichegru.     And  Moreau. 

Grunstein  {contemptuously) .     Oh,  those 

fVeinhorn. —  The  fact  is 

The  Due. —  Ah.  So,  gentlemen,  there  is  some  truth  in  this  conspiracy 
of  Georges,  about  which  the  newspapers  have  been  raising  such  a  clamor .? 
The  more  I  think  about  it,  the  less  I  can  understand  it.  Can  it  be  possible 
that  Georges  went  to  Paris  intending  to  kill  Bonaparte  ^ 

Schmitt. —  That  is  undoubtedly  the  case,  monseigneur. 

The  Due. —  Then  so  much  the  worse.     Faith,  so  much  the  worse! 

Thumery. —  Why,  monseigneur  .? 

The  Due. —  Because  Georges  turned  into  an  assassin  has  spoiled  for 
me  the  Georges  whom  I  admire,  the  patriot  Georges. 

Grunstein. —  But,  monseigneur,  Georges  is  not  an  assassin,  since  Bona- 
parte would  have  been  able  to  defend  himself;  they  would  have  attacked 
him  only  when  surrounded  by  his  guards. 

The  Due. —  Come,  Grunstein,  you  know  very  well  that  Georges  would 
have  put  more  trumps  in  his  own  hand  than  in  his  adversary's,  and  that 
consequently 

Grunstein. —  But,  monseigneur 

The  Due. —  Look  here!  You  do  not  pretend  that  Georges  suddenly 
falling  by  surprise  on  the  consul's  guard  would  be  acting  as  honorably  as 
the  Archduke  Charles  fighting  General  Bonaparte  at  Tagliamento  ? 

Thumery. —  Undoubtedly  not,  monseigneur;  but  is  it  necessary  to  be 
very  particular  with  the  revolution  .? 

Grunstein. —  Haven't  they  guillotined  his  majesty  Louis  XVI  and 
Queen  Marie  Antoinette .?  Haven't  they  driven  the  poor  little  King  Louis 
XVn  to  death  under  a  cobbler's  blows  .? 

Thumery. —  Is  there  a  noble  family  in  France  that  isn't  entitled  to 
wear   mourning .? 

The  Due. —  Ah,  Thumery,  if  the  revolution,  this  abominable  revolution 
that  we  all  hate  so,  if  it  were  a  hundred  times  worse,  is  that  any  reason  for 
acting  in  the  same  way .?  Are  not  murder  and  infamy  irrevocably  called 
murder  and  infamy .?     For  my  part,  I  loathe  people  whose  methods  are 


414  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUG  D'ENGHIEN 

wanting  in  straightforward  courage,  just  as  much  as  my  preferences  carry 
me  toward  those  who  Hke  yourselves  are  resolved  to  sustain  their  rights  on 
the  field  of  battle.     (Turning  quickly  to  Weinborn.)     Am  I  not  right,  abbe  ? 

Weinhorn. —  Yes,  monseigneur,  you  are  right,  absolutely  right. 

The  Princesse. —  Nevertheless,  even  with  people  of  the  highest  virtue, 
it  is  sometimes  impossible  not  to  render  evil  for  evil  in  the  face  of  certain 
crimes. 

Thumery. —  Well  said,  madame. 

The  Due. —  And  see  here,  Schmitt,  is  it  also  true  that  Georges 
would  not  agree  to  come  to  France  without  the  express  condition  of  having 
near  him  a  prince  of  the  blood  at  the  time  of  the  outrage  ?  Have  you  heard 
anything  about  that .? 

Schmitt. —  I  have  so  heard  it  said  —  yes,  monseigneur. 

The  Due. —  And  do  you  know  who  this  prince  was  to  be  ? 

Schmitt. —  His  highness  the  Due  de  Berry. 

The  Due. —  The  Due  de  Berry!     Had  he  the  king's  approval .? 

Schmitt. —  No,    monseigneur. 

The  Due. —  Pardieu! 

Schmitt. —  But  I  have  also  heard  this,  monseigneur:  that  Georges,  at 
the  moment  of  departure,  did  not  insist  on  this  condition. 

The  Due  (rising). —  If  it  is  agreeable  to  you,  gentlemen,  we  will  now, 
as  we  do  every  day,  drink  the  health  of  King  Louis  XVHI,  who  is  at  this  time 
at  Warsaw,  far  from  his  people  and  his  own. 

All. —  To  the  king!     (They  touch  glasses.) 

(Enter  Simon,  running  in  pale  and  frightened.) 

Simon. —  Monseigneur!     The  French,  the  French! 

The  Due. —  What  is  this!     The  French! 

Thumery. —  The  French! 

Simon  (to  the  Due). — ^Yes,  monseigneur.  The  French.  They  are 
climbing  over  the  wall,  out  there.  Save  yourself.  (Going  to  the  window.) 
Come  here!     Look!    They  are  now  in  the  park. 

The  Princesse  (passionately). —  Save  yourself!  Oh,  save  yourself, 
Henri ! 

Grunstein. —  I'll  run  and  shut  up  the  house.  (He  goes  out,  but  returns 
almost  immediately.) 

The  Princesse. —  Mon  dieuy  mon  dieu! 

Schmitt. —  Fly,  monseigneur,  be  quick  —  by  the  little  door,  in  the  back 
of  the  house. 

The  Due. —  Look  here,  my  friends,  look  here.  You  haven't  reflected. 
It  isn't  possible.  We  are  not  in  France.  And,  moreover,  why  should  they 
come  to  arrest  me  ? 


LEON  HENNIQUE  415 

Thumery  (near  the  window). —  There  are  already  half  a  score  of  soldiers 
in  the  park !     Now  they're  scaling  the  wall ! 

Simon  {to  the  Due). — They  are  the  French  —  I  swear  they  are  the 
French.  I  certainly  know  their  uniforms  well.  Save  yourself,  monseigneur. 
You  have  no  time  to  lose.  {Trumpet  calls  are  heard  from  all  sides  of  the 
dues  mansion.) 

Grunstein  {in  despair).  —  We  are  trapped.  {Some  persons  without 
begin  to  fasten  the  doors.) 

A  Voice. —  They  are  shutting  the  doors,  citizen-commandant.  They 
must  be  barricading  them. 

Another   Voice. —  Damnation! 

First  Voice. —  Wait,  I'll  have  it  open  in  a  couple  of  kicks.  (Some  kicks 
on  a  door,  which  the  people  inside  are  trying  to  fasten.) 

The  Due  {after  having  opened  a  window). —  Here,  what  is  the  meaning 
of  this  ?     Are  you  mad  }     What  do  you  want .? 

Voice  of  Commandtint  Chariot. —  Open. 

The  Due—  Why  ? 

Voice  of  Commandant  Chariot. —  Open,  I  tell  you. 

The  Due. —  Not  without  knowing. 

Voice  of  Chariot. —  Open,  or  I'll  force  the  doors. 

The  Due. —  Indeed !     Try  it  then.     {He  leaps  for  a  musket  and  loads  it.) 

Grunstein  {seizing  the  musket  by  the  barrel). —  Pardon,  monseigneur, 
but  have  you  any  compromising  papers  here  f 

The  Due.  —  How  should  I  know  ?  {The  noise  of  doors  being  fastened 
continues.) 

Grunstein. —  Well,  leave  your  musket  there.  All  resistance  is  useless 
See,  the  garden  is  full  of  soldiers.  If  you  fire,  they  will  reply  and  Madame 
la  Princesse 

The  Princesse. —  Fear  nothing  for  me;  fire,  fire,  Henri. 

The  Due  {laying  down  his  weapon). —  You  are  right,  Grunstein.  I  do 
want  to  risk  my  own  life,  but  mine  alone.  Go  and  open,  Simon.  And  end 
all  this  tumult.     {To  Simon,  who  hesitates.)     Go,  go  at  once. 

{Enter  Commandant  Charlot,  gendarmes  and  dragoons.) 

Chariot  {pistol  in  hand). —  Which  of  you  was  once  called  the  Due 
d'Enghien  ?  {To  Schmitt,  who  is  in  citizen  s  clothes.)  Is  it  you  ?  (Schmitt 
does  not  answer.) 

The  Due  {to  Charlot). —  What,  you  are  sent  to  arrest  the  due  and  you 
don't  even  know  what  he  looks  like  .? 

Grunstein. —  Besides,  why  did  you  come  to  arrest  him  ^ 

Chariot. —  Which  of  you  was  once  called  the  Due  d'Enghien  ? 


4i6  THE  DEATH  OF  THE   DUG  D'ENGHIEN 

The  Due.  —  Find  him! 

{Enter  Ordener,  Fririon,  a  petty  officer,  other  officers  and  soldiers. 
The  hall  is  now  filled  with  people.) 

Charlot. —  You  do  not  wish  to  answer  ?     Well,  since  I  can't  learn 
anything,  I  will  arrest  you  all. 

The  Due. —  Arrest  no  one;  I  am  the  due. 

Fririon  {advancing). —  Then  you  are  my  prisoner. 

The  Due. —  In  whose  name,  monsieur  .? 

Fririon. —  In  the  name  of  the  First  Consul. 

The  Due. —  Of  what  am  I  accused  } 

Ordener. —  We  know  nothing  about  that,  monsieur.     That  does  not 
concern  us.     {Addressing  the  petty  officer.)     Pfersdorf ! 

Petty    Officer. —  Citizen-general } 

Ordener. —  Run  immediately  to  the  city  hall  and  bring  me  the  burgo- 
master.     {The  petty  officer  goes  out.) 

Ordener  {to  the  due). —  That  is  to  prove  your  identity. 

The  Due  {disdainfully). —  Very  well,  monsieur,  you  can  get  as  many 
proofs  as  you  wish. 

Grunstein  {approaching  Ordener).     Aren't  you  General  Ordener  ? 

The  Due. —  Yes,  Grunstein,  that  is  General  Ordener. 

Grunstein  {to  Ordener). —  Really,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  recognize 
you. 

Ordener. —  Well  ? 

Grunstein. —  The  devil  take  me  if  I  thought  you  were  capable  of  presid- 
ing over  a  treacherous  ambush  like  this. 

Ordener  {quickly). —  I  am  a  soldier,  monsieur,  and  my  duty  is  to  obey 
my  superior  officers. 

Grunstein. —  There  are  orders  and  duties  which  a  man  of  honor  cannot 
receive  or  follow  out. 

Ordener. —  Be  silent. 

The  Due. —  Say  no  more,  my  dear  Grunstein;  you  will  end  by  making 
him  blush. 

Grunstein. —  I  obey,  monseigneur;    but  if  we  are  permitted  to  meet 
again  some  day,  in  some  other  place 

Ordener. —  Ah,  parbleau!     Whenever  you  wish,  monsieur.     Ex-general 
Dumouriez  is  not  here  \ 

Schmitt. —  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him  in  London  some  three 
weeks  ago. 

Ordener. —  What  is  your  name  ? 

Schmitt. —  My  name  is  Schmitt,  ex-lieutenant  of  the  ex-army  of  Conde, 
as  you  say. 


LEON  HENNIQUE  417 

Ordener. —  Arrest  him.  {Two  gendarmes  place  themselves  one  on  each 
side  of  SCHMITT.) 

Ordener  (to  Charlot,  who  has  written  the  Iteutenanfs  name  in  a  note- 
book).—  Arrest  them  all,  now. 

Chariot  {his  notebook  in  hand  and  preparing  to  write).  Your  name, 
monsieur  '^ 

Thumery. —  Marquis  de  Thumery,  formerly  colonel  of  Berchini's 
Hussars,  and  after  that,  general  in  the  army  of  Conde. 

Chariot. —  Monsieur,  I  arrest  you.  (Two  gendarmes  place  themselves 
by  Thumery.     To  Grunstein.)     Your  name  ^ 

Grunstein. —  Grunstein,  Baron  of  Schwengsfeld,  formerly  major  of 
the  Royal  Legion,  formerly  colonel  of  the  army  of  Conde.  {At  a  gesture 
from  Charlot,  two  gendarmes  go  to  him.) 

Chariot  {to  Weinborn). —  Your  name  .f* 

Weinborn  {raising  his  eyes  for  a  moment  from  the  breviary  which  he  has 
been  reading.)  Weinborn,  sixty-six  years  old,  grand  vicar  of  the  diocese  of 
Strasburg.     {A  silence.) 

The  Princesse  {going  to  Charlot,  who  seems  to  have  forgotten  her). 
—  And  I,  monsieur,  don't  you  want  to  arrest  me  ^     I  am  the  Princesse 

The  Due  {interrupting  her  and  presenting  her  toTu\JMERY,GRlJNSTEl^f 
and  Schmitt).  Gentlemen,  the  Duchesse  d'Enghien.  {The  three  royalists 
bow.) 

Ordener  {to  Charlot).  Arrest  only  the  men,  citizen-commandant. 
(Charlot  silently  arrests  Pierre  and  Simon.) 

Ordener  {to  a  lieutenant  of  gendarmes  who  approaches  /?zm).— Well,  have 
you  found  any  papers  1 

Lieutenant. — I  have  collected  all  I  have  been  able  to  find,  citizen-general. 

Ordener. —  Good.  {Speaking  to  the  soldiers  by  the  door.)  Has  the 
burgomaster  arrived  } 

Pfersdorfs  voice. —  Yes,  citizen-general. 

Ordener. —  Bring  him  in. 

{Enter  the  burgomaster.) 

Ordener  {to  the  burgomaster). —  Please  step  this  way,  rnonsieur.  I  beg 
your  pardon  for  putting  you  to  this  trouble,  but  it  is  necessary  that  you 
certify  to  the  description  that  is  about  to  be  drawn  up  of  this  gentleman. 
He  is  really  the  Due  d'Enghien,  is  he  not  t 

Burgomaster. —  Monsieur  is  the  Due  d'Enghien. 

The  Due. —  Delighted  to  see  you,  monsieur  burgomaster.  And,  faith, 
since  you  are  here,  I  beg  you  to  kindly  convey  my  respects  to  your  master, 
the  Grand  Duke  of  Baden  and  inform  him  of  the  discourteous  fashion  in 
which  I  am  arrested  on  his  territory. 


4i8  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUC  D'ENGHIEN 

Ordener  {to  the  Due). —  Don't  bother  about  that,  monsieur,  the  citizen 
First  Consul  has  charge  of  that  matter.  (7*0  Charlot.)  Write  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  prisoner;  General  Fririon  will  dictate  it  to  you.  (Charlot  seats 
himself  at  the  tahle^  where  the  prince  and  his  friends  had  begun  breakfast.) 

Fririon  {his  eyes  fixed  on  the  due). — Hair  and  eyebrows,  light  auburn. 
Face:  oval,  long,  well  made.  Eyes:  gray,  verging  on  brown.  Mouth 
medium,  nose  aquiline,  chin  a  little  pointed.     That  is  all. 

The  Due  {smiling). —  I  am  afraid  that  you  have  somewhat  flattered  me, 
monsieur.  {A  silenee,  during  whieh  the  burgomaster  certifies  to  the  descrip- 
tion.) 

Ordener  {to  Fririon). —  We  have  forgotten  nothing  ? 

Fririon. —  Nothing  that  I  can  think  of,  citizen-general. 

Ordener. —  Then  let  us  go.      {They  prepare  to  leave.) 

The  Due  {to  the  prineesse,  who  since  the  arrival  of  the  soldiers  has  clung 
to  him). —  Good  by,  duchesse.  You  will  excuse  me  for  leaving  you  in  this 
way,  won't  you,  duchesse  .''  It  is  the  fault  of  these  gentlemen.  {She  throws 
herself  into  his  arms.) 

The  Princesse. — Henri. 

Ordener. —  Let  us  go,  monsieur;  forward,  forward! 

The  Due  {to  the  princesse  who  has  loosened  her  embrace). —  You  will 
think  of  me  ? 

The  Princesse. —  Every  moment,  Henri.  {She  is  very  pale  and  can 
hardly  stand.) 

The  Due  {to  Charlot,  who  comes  along  side  of  him.)  A  disagreeable 
adventure,  monsieur  —  for  you,  as  well  as  for  me.  Ah,  well,  where  are  you 
going  to  take  me  .^ 

Chariot. —  To  Strasburg. 

The  Due. —  And  then  .? 

Chariot. —  Monsieur,  I  do  not  know. 

Scene  HI 

In  the  Chateau  of  Vincennes.  A  large  delapidated  hall;  in  some  places 
the  wall  paper  is  torn  off,  in  others  it  is  moldy  and  spotted  by  the  damp.  At 
the  back,  before  a  large  fireplace,  a  table,  lighted  by  candles  placed  in  iron  lan- 
terns. Door  to  the  left,  door  to  the  right,  flanked  by  a  window.  Somewhat 
apart  from  the  rest,  before  an  empty  bench,  a  taboret  or  prisoner's  stool. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  the  following  are  discovered:  General  Hullin, 
Colonel  Guiton,  four  other  colonel-judges.  Major  Dautencourt,  Captain 
MoLiN,  light- gendarmes,  soldiers  of  the  garrison  of  Vincennes  in  undress 


LEON  HENNIQUE  419 

uniform  waiting  ordersy  civil  and  military  employees  of  the  citadel;  some 
superior  ofjicersy  of  whom  one  is  standing  and  warming  his  hands  at  the  fire. 
The  judges  are  in  full  dress  uniform.  General  Hullin  is  sitting  at  the 
center  of  the  table,  his  hack  toward  the  fire;  on  each  side  of  him  the  five 
colonel-judges,  ranked  according  to  seignority  of  appointment.  Dauten- 
COURT  is  at  the  left  end  of  the  table,  MoLiN  at  the  right. 

Hullin. —  Please  conclude  the  reading  of  the  proces- verbal,  citizen- 
major. 

Dautencourt  (standing). — On  being  asked  if  he  knew  General 
Pichegru  and  if  he  had  not  met  him  several  times, 

He  replied:  I  have,  I  believe,  never  seen  him,  but  I  know  that  he  has 
desired  to  meet  me.  I  am  thankful  not  to  have  known  him,  after  the  vile 
means  which  it  is  said  he  wanted  to  make  use  of,  if  it  is  true. 

On  being  asked  if  he  knew  Ex-general  Dumouriez,  he  replied :  On  the 
contrary,  I  have  never  seen  him. 

On  being  asked  if  he  had  since  the  peace  ever  held  any  correspondence 
with  the  interior  of  the  Republic,  he  replied:  I  have  written  to  a  few 
friends  who  are  still  attached  to  me,  who  were  my  companions  in  war,  about 
their  affairs  and  my  own.  These  correspondences  are  not,  I  think,  those  to 
which  it  is  intended  to  refer. 

All  of  which  has  been  dated  this  date  and  signed  by  the  Due  d'Enghien, 
by  the  cavalry  commander  Jacquin,  Lieutenant  Noirot,  the  gendarmes 
present,  and  by  us,  captain  judge-advocate. 

At  the  same  time  and  after  signing  the  said  proces-verbal,  the  Due 
d'Enghien  has  wished  to  add  the  following:  I  earnestly  entreat  a  private 
audience  with  the  First  Consul.  My  name,  my  rank,  my  way  of  thinking, 
and  the  horror  of  my  situation  lead  me  to  hope  that  he  will  not  refuse  me 
my  request.  (A  silence.  Dautencourt  sits  down.  The  judges  consult 
together  for  a  moment  in  low  tones.) 
.,.     Colonel  Guiton. —  Let  us  have  the  statement  of  the  charges. 

Hullin  {passing  him  a  paper). —  There  is  no  statement  of  the  charges, 
—  but  here  is  the  notice  from  the  consular  government,  which  from  various 
motives,  which  you  are  about  to  see,  hands  over  to  us  the  quondam  Due 
d'Enghien. 

Colonel  Guiton. —  In  that  case,  I  beg  the  citizen-clerk  of  the  court  to 
communicate  to  me  the  statement  of  the  defense. 

Molin. —  There  is  none,  citizen-colonel. 

Guitton. —  What,  there  is  nothing  more  ?  {The  judges  look  at  each 
other  in  astonishment.     A  silence.) 

Hullin. —  Very  well.  Let  the  witnesses  be  summoned.  {Another 
silence.) 


420  THE  DEATH  OF  THE   DUC  D'ENGHIEN 

Molin. —  There  are  no  witnesses.  {The  judges  look  at  each  other  again.) 
Hullin. —  Where  is  the  prisoner's  advocate  ?  {No  one  answers.) 
Hulltn  {coldly). —  Go.  Have  the  prisoner  brought  in.  {An  officer  goes 
out;  he  returns  almost  immediately  with  the  Due  d'Enghien,  followed  by 
gendarmes.  The  due  is  dressed  in  a  blue  frock  coat,  which  is  unbuttoned,  a 
white  cravat  and  light  gray  pantaloons.  His  boots  are  in  the  style  known  as 
a  la  Souvaroff,  that  is,  not  quite  reaching  to  the  knee  and  turned  over  at  the  top, 
and  have  spurs.  On  his  head  is  a  peaked  cap  trimmed  with  gold  lace.  On 
arriving  at  his  taboret  he  removes  his  cap,  seats  himself  and  then  examines 
everything  with  a  calm  atr.      The  clock  strikes  two.) 

Hullin. — Be  good  enough  to  rise,  monsieur.  {The  due  gets  up  and 
folds  his  arms  on  his  breast.)     What  is  your  name  ? 

The  Due. —  Louis  Antoine  Henri  de  Bourbon,  Due  d'Enghien. 

Hullin. —  Your  age  ? 

The  Due. —  Twenty-two  years. 

Hullin. —  Where  were  you  born  ? 

The  Due—  At  Chantilly. 

Hullin. —  About  what  time  did  you  leave  France  ? 

The  Due. —  I  cannot  say  precisely,  but  I  think  it  was  the  sixteenth  of 
July,  1789.  I  went  away  with  the  Prince  de  Conde,  my  grandfather,  with 
my  father,  with  the  Comte  d'Artois,  and  the  Comte  d'Artois's  children. 

Hullin. —  Where  have  you  resided  since  your  departure  from  France  .? 

The  Due. —  On  leaving  France  I  passed  with  my  parents  to  Mons  and 
Brussels,  then  we  moved  to  Turin  to  the  palace  of  the  King  of  Sardinia, 
where  we  remained  almost  sixteen  months.  After  that  always  with  my 
parents,  I  went  to  Worms,  and  the  neighborhood  upon  the  banks  of  the 
Rhine.      {A  short  silence.) 

Hullin. —  And  then  .? 

The  Due. —  Then,  when  my  grandfather,  the  Prince  de  Conde,  went  to 
England,  I  lived  at  Gratz  for  my  own  pleasure,  until  after  having  asked  per- 
mission of  Cardinal  de  Rohan  to  reside  in  his  diocese,  I  established  myself 
at  Ettenheim  in  Brisgau.  There  I  have  lived  the  last  two  years  and  a  half. 
It  was  there  that  I  was  arrested, 

Hullin. —  Have  you  ever  borne  arms  against  the  Republic  ? 

The  Due. —  Yes,  monsieur. 

Hullin. —  At  what  time  ? 

The  Due. —  I  did  so  in  the  campaign  of  1792  in  Brabant  with  the  Bour- 
bon Corps  in  the  army  of  Duke  Albert;  then  when  the  Conde  Corps  was 
formed,  I  fought  with  the  same  in  the  war  in  which  it  was  used  against  you. 

Hullin. —  When  the  Conde  Corps,  as  you  call  it 

The  Due  {interrupting  him). —  As  it  is  called,  monsieur. 


LEON  HENNIQUE  421 

Hullin. —  Be  it  so.  When  the  Conde  Corps,  I  say,  had  been  disbanded, 
were  you  not  in  the  pay  of  England  ? 

The  Due. —  I  was  in  the  pay  of  England. 

Hullin. —  Does  this  power  still  give  you  assistance  ? 

The  Due. —  Yes,  monsieur.     That  is  all  I  have  to  live  on. 

Hullin. — Have  you  kept  up  any  correspondence  with  the  French 
princes  in  London  .^ 

The  Due. —  Naturally.  Why  shouldn't  I  correspond  with  my  father 
and  grandfather } 

Hullin. —  When  did  you  see  them  last } 

The  Due. —  I  left  the  Prince  de  Conde  at  Vienne,  after  the  disband- 
ment  of  the  corps  that  bore  his  name;  as  for  the  Due  de  Bourbon,  I  do  not 
think  I  have  seen  him  since  1794  or  1795. 

Hullin. —  What  rank  did  you  hold  in  the  army  of  Conde  ? 

The  Due. —  At  first  I  served  as  a  volunteer  at  the  headquarters  of  my 
grandfather;  then  I  commanded  the  advance  guard  in  1796. 

Hullin. —  And  then  ? 

The  Due  (with  pride). —  Always  the  advance  guard.  {A  very  short 
stlenee.) 

Hullin. —  Do  you  now  care  to  say  for  what  reason  you  have  borne  arms 
against  your  country  f 

The  Due. —  For  God,  for  the  king,  for  the  throne,  and  for  the  recovery 
of  the  rightful  inheritance  of  my  ancestors. 

Hullin. —  Have  you  conspired  against  the  life  of  the  First  Consul  ? 
Were  you  connected  with  the  murderous  plot  organized  by  Georges  ? 

The  Due. —  Monsieur,  are  you  speaking  to  the  Due  d'Enghien,  grand- 
son to  the  Prince  de  Conde  ? 

Hullin. —  To  himself. 

The  Due. —  Pardon  me,  but  I  was  of  the  opinion  that  the  glory  of  my 
ancestors,  my  rank,  and  the  respect  that  one  is|entitled  to  anticipate,  even 
from  an  enemy,  deserved  something  better  than  an  insult. 

Hullin. —  This  is  all  very  well,  monsieur.  However,  you  will  have  to 
pardon  us,  but  you  oblige  me  to  say  that  you  have  in  no  wise  answered  my 
question.  Do  you  wish  me  to  repeat  it  ?  Have  you  conspired  against  the 
life  of  the  First  Consul .? 

The  Due  {passionately). —  I  have  then  no  right  to  the  respect  and  regard 
of  Frenchmen  ? 

Hullin  {after  a  short  stlenee). —  Come,  come,  monsieur,  reflect.  En- 
deavor to  control  yourself.  Be  good  enough  to  take  account  of  the  place 
where  you  are.     We  are  not  children.     I  am  afraid  that  you  allow  yourself 


422  THE   DEATH  OF  THE   DUC  D'ENGHIEN 

to  be  carried  away  by  certain  ideas  that  you  hold  through  your  birth  and 
education.  {Quickly  and  with  a  gesture  of  vexation  toward  the  due.)  Once 
again,  yes  or  no,  have  you  conspired  against  the  Hfe  of  the  First  Consul  ? 

The  Due  (dryly). —  No,  monsieur. 

HuUin. —  Now,  that  is  a  Hkely  thing!  Your  hatred  toward  the  Repub- 
lic, the  place  where  you  live,  your  frequent  disappearances  from  Ettenheim. 

The  Due  {indicating  Dautencourt). —  I  have  already  explained 
to  this  gentleman  why  I  lived  at  Ettenheim.     As  for  my  disappearances 

Dautencourt. —  Monsieur  has  certainly  explained,  and  I  have  put  it 
down  in  the  proces-verbal  that  his  sojourn  at  Ettenheim  had  but  one  object, 
and  that  was  to  profit  by  the  hunting  rights  that  had  been  granted  him  by 
the  Elector  of  Baden. 

Hullin  {to  the  due). —  As  for  your  disappearances 

The  Due. —  Really,  monsieur,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  couldn't  very  well 
go  hunting  in  the  streets  of  Ettenheim! 

Hullin. —  But  —  the  conspiracy 

The  Due. —  I  have  told  you,  no,  monsieur;  I  have  told  you  that  I  have 
not  conspired. 

Hullin. —  However 

The  Due  {exasperated). —  No,  no,  no.  A  hundred  times  no,  a  thousand 
times  no.  Can't  I  repeat  it  enough  to  satisfy  you  ?  {He  furiously  throws 
his  cap  to  the  ground  and  tramples  it  under  foot.)  Bonaparte  is  a  great  man! 
If  I  have  vowed  him  an  implacable  hatred,  as  well  as  to  the  French,  it  is  not 
the  hatred  of  an  assassin.  Against  him  as  against  you  I  have  and  I  will 
make  war,  on  all  occasions,  at  every  opportunity;  but  honorable  war,  as 
every  prince  of  Bourbon  blood  ought  to  make.  {Calming  himself  suddenly.) 
At  Ettenheim,  moreover,  I  knew  nothing  about  what  was  going  on,  I  bothered 
myself  with  nothing. 

Hullin. —  Monsieur,  you  seem  to  be  mistaken  as  to  your  real  position. 
You  take  pains  to  remind  us  at  every  instant  of  your  birth,  as  if  that  were  a 
proof  of  anything.  Had  you  not  better  adopt  some  other  line  of  defense  ^. 
I  do  not  wish  to  abuse  your  position,  but  I  note  that  you  have  several  times 
broken  your  parole  and  that  you  have  given  violent  answers  to  questions 
put  to  you  in  the  calmest  possible  manner.  Take  care,  monsieur,  this  can 
become  serious,  very  serious.  And  besides,  how  can  you  hope  to  persuade 
us  that  at  Ettenheim  you  were  as  completely  ignorant  as  you  say  of  what  was 
taking  place  in  France,  when  the  whole  world  knew  about  it .''  And  how  can 
you  contend,  coming  from  a  family  such  as  yours,  that  you  were  indifferent 
to  all  these  events,  the  consequences  of  which  would  mean  so  much  to  you  .? 
There  is  such  unlikelihood  about  all  this  that  I  do  not  wish  you  to  avoid 
noticing  it. 


LEON  HENNIQUE  42^ 

The  Due. —  Monsieur,  I  would  not  have  been  indifferent  to  these  events, 
if  they  had  harmonized  with  the  principles  of  honor. 

Hullin. —  You  think  so,  monsieur  ? 

The  Due. —  I  am  sure  of  it. 

Hullin. —  Then  you  find  it  harmonizing  with  honor  to  fight  against 
your  country  ? 

The  Due. —  I  have  battled  for  legitimate  rights,  to  relieve  the  throne 
from  the  factions  that  have  beaten  against  it.  I  have  not  borne  arms  against 
my  country,  but  against  the  revolution,  this  revolution  whose  only  tribunals 
were  scaffolds. 

Hullin. —  But,  monsieur,  it  was  France  that  made  this  revolution. 

The  Due. —  No,  France  has  looked  at  it  only  with  horror;  without  a 
doubt  a  day  will  come  when  she  will  look  back  on  it  only  with  execration. 

Hullin. —  You  are  amazing,  monsieur.     And  I  can  only  think . 

Is  it  indeed  you  who  speak  to  us  here  \     You  are  not  sacrificing  yourself  to 
the  prejudices  of  your  caste  } 

The  Due. —  My  caste  has  no  more  prejudices  than  yours,  monsieur; 
it  only  has  more  elevated  views  and  more  duties  to  perform.     {A  silenee.) 

Hullin  {very  kindly). —  Come  now,  monsieur,  yet  one  more  question. 
Has  your  grandfather  or  your  father  ever  used  their  influence  to  persuade 
you  to  go  a  little  further  than  you  really  wished  .? 

The  Due  {after  a  short  silenee). —  I  understand  you  very  well,  monsieur^ 
and  I  appreciate  your  benevolent  intentions;  but  I  cannot  take  advantage 
of  the  means  you  offer  me.  Never  will  I  forswear  my  cause,  which  is  the 
cause  of  all  princes  and  all  gentlemen. 

Hullin. —  You  were  then  ready  before  your  arrest  to  make  common 
cause  with  England  against  us  .? 

The  Due  {in  a  grave  tone). —  Yes,  monsieur.  I  have  even  asked  Eng- 
land to  let  me  serve  in  her  armies,  when  you  declared  war  against  her.  But 
she  answered  that  she  would  not,  that  I  was  to  remain  on  the  Rhine,  where 
presently  I  would  have  a  role  to  play.  And  I  was  waiting,  monsieur.  I 
have  nothing  more  to  tell  you. 

Hullin. —  Citizen-colonels,  do  any  of  you  wish  to  question  the  accused  } 
{No  one  answers.)  In  that  case  we  have  nothing  more  to  do  but  to  retire 
for  deliberation.  {He  rises.)  The  case  is  closed.  {All  go  out  amid  a  pro- 
found silenee.     The  Due  remains,  along  with  Lieutenant  Noirot.) 

The  Due  {quiekly). —  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  something,  my  dear 
M.  Noirot  ?  Well,  I  regret  only  one  thing  and  that  is  that  at  Ettenheim  I 
didn't  fire  on  one  of  the  generals  I  had  in  my  house.  At  any  rate  my  fate 
would  have  been  decided  by  arms  at  once.     And  I  would  have  escaped  this 


424  THE   DEATH   OF  THE   DUC  D'ENGHIEN 

court-martial  where  I  have  been  treated  as  a  deserter.  And  I  wouldn't  be 
here,  half  dead  for  sleep,  worn  out  with  fatigue.  {A  silence.)  Ah,  my 
dear  sir,  do  you  know  that  since  my  arrest,  you  are  the  only  man  who  has 
shown  any  sympathy  for  me  ^.  You  are  now  my  guard  and  you  could  have 
joined  with  every  one  else  in  making  my  captivity  as  hard  and  painful  as 
possible.  So  give  me  your  hand,  iVl.  Noirot.  (Noirot  gives  him  his  hand 
which  the  Due  holds  for  a  moment.) 

Noirot. —  I  would  rather  have  a  place  in  a  hundred  battles,  monsieur, 
than  in  an  examination  such  as  you  have  had  to  submit  to. 

The  Due. —  You  are  sincerely  a  republican,  M.  Noirot .'' 

Noirot. —  Sincerely,  yes,  monsieur. 

The  Due. —  I  am  sorry  for  mine  and  for  myself.  Do  you  know  if  the 
First  Consul  has  been  informed  of  the  interview  which  I  desired  to  have 
with  him  } 

Noirot. —  I  do  not,  but  if  you  would  like  me  to,  I  can  go 

The  Due. —  No.  Never  mind.  If  by  chance  they  had  spoken  to 
you  about  it,  I  should  have  felt  easier,  but  I  would  rather  have  you  stay  with 
me  —  especially  as  the  First  Consul  can  hardly  refuse  me  such  a  small 
favor.     Don't  you  think  so  ? 

Noirot. —  No.     He  can  hardly 

The  Due  (gaily). —  In  any  case  I  am  positive  he  would  refuse  me 
nothing  if  he  knew  that  I  am  one  of  the  most  passionate  admirers  of  his 
military  talents  and  that  this,  wrongly  interpreted,  once  earned  for  me  a 
reprimand  from  the  Prince  de  Conde,  my  grandfather. 

Noirot  (smiling). —  Is  that  so  ^ 

The  Due. —  I  am  sorry  I  no  longer  have  the  letter  in  which  the 
reprimand  was  given  to  me.  I  would  show  it  to  you.  It  was  at  the  time  of 
the  Italian  campaign.     By  the  way,  were  you  on  that  campaign,  M.  Noirot  ^ 

Noirot. —  No,  monsieur,  but  I  was  in  the  Egyptian  campaign,  the  whole 
Egyptian  campaign. 

The  Due. —  You  were  in  the  Battle  of  the  Pyramids  .'' 

Noirot. —  Yes,  monsieur. 

The  Due. —  Then  you  saw  the  Mamelukes,  the  host  of  Mamelukes, 
all  covered  with  shining  armor,  attack  the  handful  of  French  grouped  in  the 
desert  ?  You  saw  them  decimated  by  the  French  and  flung  into  the  Nile  .'* 
You  saw  Desaix,  Lannes,  Kleber,  and  all  the  others  carry  away  the  victories 
that  the  genius  of  Bonaparte  had  prepared  for  them  ? 

Noirot. —  Yes,  I  have  seen  all  this,  monsieur. 

The  Due  (pensively). — And  to  think  that  I  could  have  been  there,  I  also, 
I,  if  France   had    remained   faithful   to   her   kings  —  instead   of  fighting 


LEON  HENNIQUE  425 

against  her  —  and  of  dreaming  of  the  glories  of  others!  (A  silence,  at 
the  end  of  which  there  appear  at  the  left  door,  first  Madame  Harel,  then  the 
Princesse  de  Rohan.  Madame  Harel  speaks  in  a  low  tone  to  Noirot, 
after  which,  on  a  sign  of  acquiescence  from  him,  she  turns  to  the  door  through 
which  she  entered.) 

Madame  Harel  (to  the  princesse,  who  is  not  yet  visible). —  Enter, 
madame,  he  is  here. 

The  Due  {rushing  toward  the  princesse). —  You! 

The  Princesse  (throwing  herself  in  his  arms  and  bursting  into  tears). — 
Yes,  I.  I  have  seen  Consul  Cambaceres.  I  had  been  told  that  he  did  not 
want  you  arrested.  It  was  true.  Then  he  had  pity  on  me  and  sent  me 
secretly  with  a  letter  to  the  officer  who  commands  the  Chateau  de  Vin- 
cennes.  (Indicating  Madame  Harel,  who  is  speaking  to  Noirot.)  Mad- 
ame, whom  you  must  thank,  is  the  wife  of  this  officer.  She  has  been  very 
good  to  me.  (The  princesse  continues  to  weep.  The  due,  overcome  by 
his  emotions,  silently  kisses  Madame  Harel's  hand.) 

The  Due  (returning  to  the  princesse). —  Don't  weep.  Don't  weep 
now,  you  mustn't  weep  like  this.  You  make  me  feel  so  bad.  (To  Noirot.) 
My  dear  Noirot,  isn't  madame  wrong  in  giving  way  to  her  feelings  like  this  ? 
There's  no  reason  for  it,  is  there  t 

Noirot. —  Why,   indeed 

The  Due  (softly  to  the  princesse). —  Come,  don't  weep  any  more. 
They  are  looking  at  us. 

The  Princesse. —  It  is  nothing.  I  was  overcome  for  the  moment. 
There,  it  is  over.  See  ?  (She  wipes  her  eyes.)  You  are  not  ill,  at  any  rate. 
All  this  has  not  made  you  ill  ? 

The  Due  (forcing  a  smile). —  I,  ill  ?  Why  do  you  want  me  to  be  ill  ? 
Do  I  look  badly,  then  ? 

The  Princesse. —  You  seemed  to  be  so  pale  when  I  came  in. 

The  Due. —  Nevertheless,  I  have  been  sleeping  very  well,  I  assure  you. 
It  hasn't  been  half  an  hour  since  I  woke  up. 

The  Princesse  (indicating  the  table  and  the  lanterns  thereon). — And  this, 
what  is  all  this  } 

The  Due. —  That .?  Nothing  —  I  don't  know.  A  table  where  some 
soldiers  have  been  eating,  probably.  However,  I  am  here  only  temporarily, 
while  they  prepare  a  room.  Isn't  that  so,  M.  Noirot  ?  (Noirot  makes 
a  gesture  of  assent.)  By  the  way,  M.  Noirot,  please  draw  near,  so  I  can 
present  you  to  the  Duchesse  d'Enghien.  (Noirot  approaches.)  Lieutenant 
Noirot,  my  guard  —  and  my  friend.  This  gentleman  was  formerly  in 
the  Regiment  du  Royal-Navarre.    He  has  seen  me  when  I  was  a  child,  at 


426  THE   DEATH  OF  THE   DUC  D'ENGHIEN 

the  house  of  the  Count  de  Grussel,  where  I  remember  having  been  several 
times. 

The  Prtncesse. —  I  hope,  monsieur,  that  you  will  not  forget  us,  if  ever 
in  our  turn  we  can  be  useful  to  you  in  anything.     (Noirot  hows.) 

The  Due. —  Will  you  allow  us  a  few  moments  alone,  M.  Noirot .? 

Noirot. —  Certainly,  monsieur.  But  hurry,  monsieur,  for  they  may 
come  back  any  moment  and  {indicating  the  princesse)  madame  must  not 
be  discovered  here.     {He  talks  apart  with  Madame  Harel.) 

The  Princesse  {in  a  lower  tone  to  the  due). —  Well,  why  were  you 
arrested  .''     You  ought  to  know  why  to-day. 

The  Due. —  I  ?  No.  They  have  said  nothing  to  me.  And,  my  faith, 
as  they  have  said  nothing,  I  haven't  liked  to  ask. 

The  Princesse. —  What,  you  have  seen  no  one  ^ 

The  Due. —  No  one.  {Smiling.)  Except  yourself,  madame,  M. 
Noirot,  and  the  soldiers  who  guard  me. 

The  Princesse. —  Then  you  do  not  know  whether  they  are  going  to 
liberate  you  or  to  keep  you  in  prison  for  a  long  time  .? 

The  Due. —  No,  but  I  have  an  idea  that  we  will  soon  find  ourselves  back 
in  my  little  house  at  Ettenheim. 

The  Princesse. —  And  on  what  do  you  base  this  idea  .?  You  have  seen 
no  one  as  yet. 

The  Due. —  On  what  do  I  base  it  ^  My  faith.  First  of  all,  on  the 
opinion  of  M.  Noirot 

The  Princesse. —  And  then  ? 

The  Due. —  And  then,  on  mine.  I  have  rarely  had  presentiments  that 
have  deceived  me.  Now  tell  me,  with  a  little  more  detail,  about  your  in- 
terview with  M.  Cambaceres.  What  were  you  able  to  say  to  him  in  order  to 
obtain  so  easily 

The  Princesse. —  Oh,  nothing  very  great.  I  began  by  telling  him  that 
I  was  your  wife,  at  which  he  was  greatly  astonished. 

The  Due  {smiling). —  The  impertinent! 

The  Princesse. —  Then  I  began  to  weep  and  weep,  so  that,  after  having 
for  a  long  time  refused  to  trouble  himself  about  me,  he  ended  by  taking  pity 
on  me,  by  remembering  that  Commandant  Harel  was  under  obligations  to 
him  and  so  —  here  I  am.  It  was  his  valet-de-chambre  who  brought  me 
here.  He  is  at  Madame  Harel's.  We  drove  over.  I  have  been  at  the 
chateau  since  midnight;  they  made  me  wait.  You  have  no  idea  how  many 
soldiers  I  met  on  the  road,  approaching  Vincennes.  Ah,  now  you  have  not 
been  trying  to  escape  .? 

The  Due. —  How  could  I  think  of  it  ?     There  are  soldiers  at  every  gate. 

The  Princesse. —  By  means  of  M.  Noirot } 


LEON  HENNIQUE  427 

The  Due. — M.  Noirot  would  not  have  consented  to  it.  M.  Noirot  is  a 
noble  fellow,  but  he  is  a  republican. 

Noirot  (approaching  the  due). —  Pardon  me  for  disturbing  you,  but 
madame  must  leave  you.     This  is  also  the  advice  of  Citoyenne  Harel. 

Madame  Harel  {to  the  prineesse). —  Yes,  madame,  for  if  you  were 
discovered  here  in  spite  of  the  order  to  let  no  one  in  to  monsieur,  my  husband 
would  suffer  the  severest  penalties. 

The  Due. —  Madame  is  right.  No  one  ought  to  suffer  for  having  tried 
to  do  us  a  kindness.  And,  therefore,  duchesse,  au  revoir  —  for  a  little. 
{They  emhraee.) 

The  Prineesse. —  I  will  do  everything  I  can  . 

The  Due  {quiekly). —  Why  so}  Let  us  await  developments.  Let  us 
see  what  will  happen.  Come,  my  dear.  {He  kisses  her  tenderly  several 
times.     She  weeps  afresh.) 

The  Prineesse. —  Henri,  my  Henri. 

The  Due  {mueh  moved). —  Good  by,  good  by.  Be  brave.  Be 
braver  than  this.  This  is  the  worst  consolation  you  can  give  me.  I  promise 
I'll  run  into  no  danger.     {To  Madame  Harel.)     Take  her,  madame. 

The  Prineesse. —  No,  I  want  to  stay  with  you,  Henri.  Please  let  me; 
oh,  please  let  me.  {Her  sobs  redouble.  Madame  Harel  takes  her  by  the 
hand.) 

The  Due. —  Come,  come;  good  by,  good  by.  (Madame  Harel  leads 
the  prineesse  away  and  the  due  eloses  the  door  behind  the  two  women. 
When  he  again  speaks  his  voiee  trembles  very  mueh  at  first.)  I  have  never 
lied  so  much  in  my  life.  The  poor  woman !  I  thought  for  a  moment  that 
she  would  not  go.  At  last.  {A  silenee.  He  yawns.)  Mon  dieu,  how 
tired  I  am!  {He  goes  to  the  taboret  where  he  had  previously  been  sitting; 
and  little  by  little,  while  speaking,  pushes  it  with  his  feet  up  to  the  eouneil 
table.)  Ah,  my  dear  M.  Noirot,  what  an  existence  mine  has  been  since  my 
arrest.  {He  yawns  again.)  This  is  how  it  was.  I  was  just  going  hunting; 
they  surrounded  my  house,  they  carried  me  off  and  took  me  in  a  cart  between 
two  walls  of  soldiers  as  far  as  the  Rhine.  Why  did  they  carry  me  off.?  I 
am  still  asking  myself  that  question.  In  brief,  here  I  am  arrested,  on  neutral 
territory,  in  contempt  of  the  rights  of  man.  But  this  is  nothing  to  the  dreari- 
ness that  followed.  I  arrived  at  Strasburg.  I  was  sent  to  the  citadel. 
There  was  no  one  ready  to  receive  me.  I  slept  on  the  ground,  on  a  mattress. 
I  needn't  tell  you  how  little  sleep  I  got,  need  I .?  {He  yawns  and  sits  down.) 
Good!  The  next  day  they  separated  me  from  my  people  and  my  friends. 
I  wrote  some  letters  to  console  myself,  then  all  the  officials  of  the  country 
began  to  file  in  front  of  me.     The  next  night  I  began  to  think :   ah,  at  last 


428  THE   DEATH   OF  THE   DUC   D'ENGHIEN 

I  shall  be  able  to  sleep.  But  no,  not  a  wink.  They  brought  me  some  papers 
that  they  had  seized  at  my  house  at  Ettenheim  and  then  they  began  to  read 
them,  to  discuss  them,  to  tie  them  up  in  bundles,  until  eleven  o'clock.  I 
was  all  tired  out,  but  once  more  I  couldn't  get  to  sleep.  The  thoughts  of 
my  cruel  position  were  too  much  on  my  mind.  The  night  finally  passed,  and 
the  succeeding  day  was  nearly  tranquil.  They  even  gave  me  permision  to 
take  the  air  in  a  small  garden  before  dinner.  I  dined,  I  went  to  bed.  A-ah, 
I  slept.  But  just  see  my  bad  luck,  my  dear  M.  Noirot.  Commandant 
Chariot,  the  inevitable  Commandant  Chariot,  made  haste  to  awaken  me.  I 
dressed  myself  hurriedly,  he  said  he  had  to  take  me  at  once  to  General  Le- 
val's.  We  went  to  General  Leval's  —  I  was  resigned  to  anything  by  that 
time  —  but  confound  it!  There  was  a  carriage  with  six  post  horses  waiting 
for  me  in  the  middle  of  the  street  and  some  soldiers.  They  had  counter 
orders.  And  then  to  Paris.  God  of  gods,  what  roads  we  went  over!  What 
ruts!  Every  moment  I  thought  the  carriage  would  be  smashed  to  pieces. 
We  arrived  at  Paris,  they  transferred  me  here;  I  appeared  before  the  court- 
martial;  they  accused  me  of  trying  to  assassinate  the  First  Consul  —  this 
poor  duchesse,  who  you  saw  just  now,  got  admitted,  God  knows  how!  It 
is  breaking  my  heart.  And  here  I  am,  dear  M.  Noirot.  But  there,  on  my 
honor,  I  can  do  no  more,  I  am  dying  of  fatigue  and  want  of  sleep.  {He  lets 
his  head  fall  on  his  arms  on  the  table.) 

Noirot  (very  slowly). —  Why  don't  you  try  to  rest,  monsieur,  while  you 
are  waiting  until  I  receive  the  order  to  take  you  elsewhere  :  It  will  not  be 
much  later  now.  Be  patient.  The  court  ought  to  be  on  the  point  of  render- 
ing its  verdict.  Who  knows  ?  Why,  any  moment  they  may  bring  you  lib- 
erty. I  have  great  hopes,  yes,  monsieur.  (A  door  opens;  Noirot  turns 
and  advances  toward  Dautencourt,  who  enters.  The  due  has  not  changed 
his  position.) 

Dautencourt. —  It  is  only  I,  citizen,  don't  disturb  yourself.  {Lowering 
his  voice  and  pointing  toward  the  due.)     Is  he  asleep  ^ 

Noirot  {also  in  a  low  voice). —  I  don't  know.  Perhaps.  He  is  ex- 
hausted. (Raising  his  voice  and  calling.)  Monsieur,  monsieur  le  due! 
(The  due  does  not  answer.)  Yes.  You  see  —  he's  asleep.  So  the  court's 
deliberations  are  over.     What  penalty  are  they  going  to  inflict  ? 

Dautencourt. —  Death. 

Noirot  (with  a  start). —  Death  .-^  Death.  O-o-oh,  the  poor  devil! 
{A  silence.)     And  when  will  they  read  the  sentence  to  him  ? 

Dautencourt. —  Right  away,  out  there.  Well,  au  revoir.  Citizen 
Noirot. 

Noirot. —  You  are  sure  ? 


LEON  HENNIQUE  429 

Dautencourt. —  Yes,  I  haven't  a  moment  to  lose.  The  soldiers  are 
already  below,  in  the  moat  of  the  chateau. 

Noirot. —  The  soldiers  —  at  this  hour  ^.     For  what  purpose  .? 

Dautencourt  {pointing  to  the  duc).—V^\\y  —  to  — 

Noirot    {thunderstruck). —  What!     Immediately! 

Dautencourt. —  Instantly.  It  appears  they  could  not  delay  matters. 
There  are  secret  orders.  {Noticing  Harel,  who  enters,  followed  by  a  corporal 
of  gendarmes.)     And  wait,  here  comes  Commandant  Harel. 

Noirot  {going  up  to  Harel  and  indicating  the  due). —  You  are  coming 
for  him  ? 

Harel. —  Yes. 

Dautencourt  {to  Noirot). —  Will  you  go  down  with  me  ? 

Noirot. —  All  right,  since  there  is  nothing  more  for  me  to  do  here. 
(Dautencourt  and  Noirot  salute  Harel;  then  go  out). 

Harel  {to  the  corporal). —  Wake  him  up.  {Stopping  the  corporal.)  You 
can  take  one  of  those  lanterns  over  there.  We'll  need  it  to  go  down  the 
stairs.  {The  corporal  takes  a  lantern,  then  he  approaches  the  due,  whom 
he  touches  lightly  on  the  arm.) 

The  Due  {without  moving). —  Huh  1     What .? 

Corporal  {touching  him  more  vigorously).     Citizen! 

The  Due  {raising  his  head  and  looking  at  the  corporal  with  sleepy 
eyes).     What  is  it  now  .?     What  do  you  want  with  me  ? 

Harel  {approaching). — Get  up,  monsieur,  and  come  with  me. 

The  Due  {rising). —  I  am  ready.  Where  are  you  going  to  take  me  ^. 
(Harel  takes  him  by  the  arm.) 

Harel. —  Monsieur,  please  follow  me  and  summon  all  your  courage. 

The  Due. —  But  where  are  you  going  to  take  me,  monsieur  ?  Where  the 
devil  are  you  going  to  take  me  .''  {Stopping  short  for  a  moment  at  the  door.) 
If  you  are  going  to  bury  me  alive  in  a  dungeon,  I  had  rather  you  led  me  to 
my  death. 

Harel. —  Monsieur,  summon  all  your  courage. 

{They  go  out.  The  stage  is  vacant  for  an  instant.  Then  through  the 
door  by  which  the  due  has  departed  enter  the  Princesse  de  Rohan  and 
Madame  Harel.) 

The  Princesse  {stopping  as  she  enters). —  Why,  look  here.  Wasn't  it 
only  a  moment  ago 

Madame  Harel. —  Yes,  madame. 

The  Princesse. —  I  do  not  see  his  highness.     Why  .'' 

Madame  Harel  {in  a  somewhat  hesitating  voice). —  No  doubt,  madame, 
because  they  have  taken  his  highness  to  a  less  delapidated  apartment. 


430  THE  DEATH  OF  THE   DUC  D'ENGHIEN 

The  Princesse. —  Ah,  yes.  I  know.  He  spoke  to  me  about  it.  (A 
short  silence.)  It  is  odd,  but  I  am  almost  happy  in  once  more  going  through 
this  place  where  I  saw  him  such  a  short  time  ago.  Will  you  let  me  look  at 
it  a  moment,  just  one  little  moment,  so  as  to  fix  it  in  my  mind  I  (Noise 
of  soldiery  without.  Then  can  be  heard  the  following,  in  the  midst  of  silence, 
as  though  it  were  being  read  not  far  away.) 

Voice  of  Dautencourt  {reading).  Madame   Harel. —  Make    haste 

—  In  the  name  of  the  French  people,     to  leave  the  chateau,  madame.     My 
after  the  examination  and  arguments     husband   has  explicitly  told   me   to 
as  set  forth,  the  commission  unani-     take  you  out  of  the  chateau  without 
mously  declares  the  said  Louis  An-     losing  an  instant, 
toine  Henri  de  Bourbon,  Due  d'Eng-  The  Princesse. —  Oh,  madame, 

hien,  guilty  of  having  borne  arms  a  moment,  I  beg  you.  Perhaps 
against  the  Republic,  of  having  M.  le  Due  d'Enghien  has  not  yet 
offered  his  services  to  the  English  gone  to  bed — Perhaps  they  will 
government,  of  being  one  of  the  bring  him  through  here  —  And  then 
parties  in  the  conspiracy  against  the  I  will  see  him  again. 
First  Consul:  And  he  is  condemned 
to  suffer  the  penalty  of  death. 

Madame  Harel. —  You  cannot  think  of  it,  madame.  What  would  they 
say  ?     Come  now.     Come,  madame. 

The  Due's  voice. —  Thanks  be  to  God,  I  shall  die  a  soldier's  death! 

The  Princesse  (all  in  a  tremble). —  I  thought  I  recognized  his  voice. 
{She  listens.) 

Madame  Harel. —  No,  madame.  I  assure  you  you  did  not.  Why 
should  you  think  that  the  voice  of  M.  le  Due  ^ 

The  Due's  voice. —  Is  there  among  you  a  man  of  honor  who  wants  to 
promise  to  do  me  a  last  service  ^ 

Madame  Harel. —  You  see  ? 

The  Princesse. —  I  tell  you  that  that  is  his  voice.  I  am  sure  it  is  his 
voice,  now.  What  are  you  telling  me  ?  Only  listen.  Listen.  (Coming  to 
Madame  Harel  and  taking  her  hand.)  I  can  now  hear  nothing.  (Noise 
of  ramrods  in  the  muskets  that  are  being  loaded.  The  Princesse  begins  to 
tremble  convulsively.) 

Madame  Harel. —  Come,  madame,  quick,  quick! 

The  Princesse. —  It's  out  there!     Close  by. 

Madame  Harel. —  I  beg  you,  madame.  It  is  the  new  garrison  which  is 
just  arriving  at  the  chateau.  They  have  been  waiting  for  it.  That  is  why 
we  have  to  go  out  this  way. 

The  Princesse. —  I  tell  you  that  I  lecognized  his  voice!  (She  runs 
toward  the  window  and  opens  it.) 


LEON  HENNIQUE  431 

The  Due's  voice. —  Come,  gentlemen,  let  us  all  do  our  duty. 

Madame  Harel. —  You  will  betray  yourself,  madame.  You  will  bring 
all  sorts  of  misfortunes  on  my  husband. 

The  Princesse. —  They  will  not  see  me.  Look  what  a  mist  there  is.  I 
see  a  light  to  the  right. 

A  loud  voice  {suddenly  from  below). —  He  wants  to  die  like  a  monk ! 

The  Princess  {terrified,  turning  toward  Madame  Harel). —  Are  they 
speaking  of  him  t  Madame  —  tell  me,  madame,  is  it  he  who  is  about  to 
die  ^     (Madame  Harel  sobs.) 

The  voice  of  the  Due  d'Enghien. —  My  friends 

The  same  voice  as  before  {cutting  off  his  words). —  You  have  no  friends 
here. 

The  Princesse  {fainting  against  the  window). —  Yes,  I  —  L  My  God, 
my  God! 

The  Due's  voice. — ^Very  well,  show  me  the  place  where  I  must  die. 
(Short  silence.)  No,  no  handkerchief.  I  do  not  want  any  handkerchief. 
I  have  seen  death  too  often  to  be  afraid  of  it. 

Voice  of  an  adjutant  {who  commands  the  firing  squad). —  Make  ready! 

The  Due's  voice. —  Aim  at  the  heart. 

Adjutant's  voice. —  Aim.     Fire! 

The  Due's  voice  {at  the  same  time). — Long  live  the  king!  {Rattle  of 
musketry.) 

The  Princess  {falling  on  her  knees). —  Henri  —  my  Henri  —  my  poor 
Henri! 


ARCHIBALD  LAMPMAN  AND  THE 

SONNET 

By  Louis  Untermeyer 

ARCHIBALD  LAMPMAN— to  a  few  only  do  the  words  call 
back  uncertain  memories  of  various  fugitive  poems  published 
in  the  leading  American  magazines  some  twenty  years  ago. 
These  few  will  remember  him,  not  for  his  message  or  the  in- 
tensity ofhis  purpose,  but  for  the  pathos  and  the  broken  beauty 
ofhis  voice, —  a  voice  that  ceased  while  the  song  still  trembled 
on  his  lips.  Shortly  after  his  fatal  illness,  in  February,  1899,  Morang  &  Co., 
of  Toronto,  issued  a  memorial  edition  ofhis  works, —  a  noteworthy  volume 
of  some  five  hundred  pages,  including  his  three  former  publications;  and  the 
young  Canadian  poet,  who  had  never  heard  the  world's  praise  during  his 
life,  began  to  gain  the  usual  tardy  recognition.  He  was  not  a  poet  of  the 
library  —  of  midnight  mythology  and  the  smoking  lamp;  he  was  a  poet  of 
spring  meadows,  of  budding  orchards  and  of  wild  and  grassy  spaces.  And 
he  sang  of  the  timothy  and  the  comfort  of  the  fields;  of  snowbirds  and  the 
summer's  sleep;  of  hepaticas  and  forest  moods;  sang  as  a  boy  might  carol 
in  his  dreams  or  a  happy  peasant  might  sing  to  the  world.  But  the  world  is 
an  ungrateful  audience  —  its  silences  are  disapproving  and  its  applause  is 
always  ill  timed.  None  felt  this  more  keenly  than  Lampman  himself,  and 
as  his  voice  grew  surer  and  his  powers  wider,  his  singing  concerned  itself  less 
and  less  with  the  stress  and  complexity  of  modern  life;  ceased  almost  to 
reflect  the  moving  panorama  of  the  crowded  days  and  echoed  only  the  themes 
of  solitude  and  woodland  wonders. 

Nature  in  all  her  manifestations  held  him  closest  —  Nature  gay  and 
Nature  pensive;  all  her  changing  moods  delighted  him.  In  a  charming  and 
sympathetic  memoir  Duncan  Campbell  Scott  tells  how  after  a  long  forced 
rest,  when  it  was  almost  spring  he  would  love  to  walk  about  slowly  in  the 
sunshine  observing  the  process  of  nature  —  the  advent  of  the  warblers  and 
the  triumph  of  the  first  fruit  blossoms.  Back  to  the  woods  he  always  came 
from  the  troubled  cities;  back  to  the  cool  glades  and  dim  recesses  in  search 
of  quietude  and  solace.  For  earth  was  to  him  a  soft-cheeked  mother,  and 
her  voice  was  his  inspiration  and  his  comfort.  But  after  all  he  has  shown 
himself  clearer  and  revealed  his  spirit  better  in  his  works;  his  smallest  poems 

432 


LOUIS  UNTERMEYER  433 

are  more  eloquent  biography  than  the  most  skilfully  prepared  appreciation 
could  be.  Nothing,  for  instance,  could  present  a  better  example  of  his 
dream  and  flower  philosophy,  his  intimate  vision  and  of  the  man  himself  than 
this  simple,  almost  whimsical  sonnet  which  he  has  called 

WINTER  THOUGHT 

The  wind-swayed  daisies,  that  on  every  side 

Throng  the  wide  fields  in  whispering  companies, 

Serene  and  gently  smiling  like  the  eyes 
Of  tender  children  long  beatified. 
The  delicate  thought-wrapped  buttercups  that  glide 

Like  sparks  of  fire  above  the  wavering  grass. 

And  swing  and  toss  with  all  the  airs  that  pass, 
Yet  seem  so  peaceful,  so  preoccupied ; 
These  are  the  emblems  of  pure  pleasures  flown, 

I  scarce  can  think  of  pleasure  without  these. 
Even  to  dream  of  them  is  to  disown 

The  cold  forlorn  midwinter  reveries, 
Lulled  with  the  perfume  of  old  hopes  new  blown, 

No  longer  dreams,  but  dear  realities. 

Here  is  the  very  refinement  of  poetic  speech ;  an  expression  so  softened 
and  delicate  that  the  entire  fourteen  lines  suggest  a  wistful  musing  rather 
than  any  conscious  thought.     And  what  exquisite  images  are  here  embodied : 

*  Wind  swayed  daisies  ... 

Serene  and  gently  smiling  like  the  eyes 
Of  tender  children  long  beatified,' 
and  the  picture  of 

*  delicate  thought-wrapped  buttercups  that  glide 
Like  sparks  of  fire  above  the  wavering  grass.' 

It  is  through  such  passages  of  beauty  that  the  sonnet  with  all  its  restric- 
tions and  limitations  becomes  the  most  ravishing  of  all  the  classic  forms. 
And  it  is  in  the  sonnet  that  Lampman  is  at  the  very  height  of  his  genius. 
In  all  of  his  sonnets,  and  there  are  over  a  hundred  in  the  second  edition  of 
his  collected  poems,  there  is  apparent  not  only  a  complete  mastery  of  the 
subtlest  technical  nuances^  but  a  variety  of  treatment  that  makes  them  all 
the  more  remarkable.     Not  content  to  reflect  the  mood  of  a  moment,  or 


434  ARCHIBALD  LAMPMAN  AND  THE  SONNET 

pamt  a  passing  picture,  he  has  drawn  upon  all  the  arts  for  their  individual 
characteristics.  The  result  is  that  his  sonnets  appeal  to  all  the  senses  — 
they  tremble  with  sound,  they  dazzle  with  color;  they  are  pictures  set  to 
music  —  plastic  and  pulsing. 

Like  a  long  drawn  note  on  a  muted  violin  or  a  young  mother's  wonder- 
ing sigh  is  this  poignant  and  searching  bit  of  melody  played  on  a  lyre  of 
fourteen  strings. 

MUSIC 

Oh,  take  the  lute  this  brooding  hour  for  me  — 
The  golden  lute,  the  hollow,  crying  lute, 
Nor  even  call  me  with  thine  eyes;  be  mute. 
And  touch  the  strings;  yea,  touch  them  tenderly; 
Touch  them  and  dream,  till  all  thine  heart  in  thee 
Grow  great  and  passionate  and  sad  and  wild. 
Then  on  me,  too,  as  on  thine  heart,  O  child, 
The  marvelous  light,  the  stress  divine  shall  be. 
And  I  shall  see,  as  with  enchanted  eyes. 
The  unveiled  vision  of  this  world  flame  by. 
Battles  and  griefs  and  storms  and  phantasies. 
The  gleaming  joy,  the  ever-seething  fire. 
The  hero's  triumph  and  the  martyr's  cry. 
The  pain,  the  madness,  the  unsearched  desire. 

If  ever  a  sonnet  could  be  lyric,  this  is  the  very  sublimation  of  song. 

'  Oh,  take  the  lute  this  brooding  hour  for  me  —  y  ^ 

The  golden  lute,  the  hollow  lute  —  \  '    ■ 

is  like  a  low  refrain  in  which  is  blended  all  the  yearning  and  the  weltschmertz 
that  the  contemplation  of  things  beautiful  always  awakens,  awakens  even 
more  than  it  lulls.  Music,  which  he  felt  more  intuitively  than  anything  else, 
was  always  present,  even  in  his  severest  moments.  Repetitions  of  phrases 
and  their  alternatives,  skilful  balancing  of  similar  sounding  words,  and  the 
varied  use  of  accented  rhythms  tended  to  give  many  of  his  sonnets  more 
actual  melody  than  one  usually  finds  in  widely  heralded  *  songs.'  In 
*  Earth  —  the  Stoic  '  we  discover  what  is  possibly  one  of  the  best  examples 
of  these  melodic  turns  and  echoes  in  the  first  few  lines: 

*  Earth,  like  a  goblet  empty  of  delight. 
Empty  of  summer  and  balm-breathing  hours, 
Empty  of  music,  empty  of  all  flowers.' 


LOUIS  UNTERMEYER  435 

Thus  every  word  became  a  separate  instrument  in  his  hands;  he  knew  all 
its  tones  and  overtones,  its  powers  and  possibilities.  He  played  lovingly 
upon  it  until  he  had  sounded  every  haunting  harmony  and  melting  modula- 
tion, until  all  the  subtle  and  exquisite  changes  were  blended  with  the  other 
voices  in  a  series  of  symphonic  passages.  He  would  but  touch  an  ordinarily 
prosaic  and  unresponsive  word,  and  it  became  a  thing  of  infinite  suggestion, 
vital  with  beauty  and  throbbing  with  imagination.  For  purely  pictorial 
effect  I  know  of  no  sonnet  in  the  English  language  that  excels  the  following 
masterpiece.  It  is  more  than  a  picture  —  it  is  a  painting  so  perfect  that  it 
contains  heat  and  sound  and  all  the  faintly  stirring  life  of  a  summer's  day 
itself. 

AMONG  THE  ORCHARDS 

Already  in  the  dew-wrapped  vineyards  dry 

Dense  weights  of  heat  press  down.     The  large  bright  drops 
Shrink  in  the  leaves.     From  dark  acacia  tops 

The  nuthatch  flings  his  short  reiterate  cry; 

And  ever  as  the  sun  mounts  hot  and  high 

Thin  voices  crowd  the  grass.     In  soft  long  strokes 
The  wind  goes  murmuring  through  the  mountain  oaks. 

Faint  wefts  creep  out  along  the  blue  and  die. 

I  hear  far  in  among  the  motionless  trees  — 

Shadows  that  sleep  upon  the  shaven  sod  — 

The  thud  of  dropping  apples.     Reach  on  reach 
Stretch  plots  of  perfumed  orchard,  where  the  bees 

Murmur  among  the  full-fringed  goldenrod 

Or  cling  half-drunken  to  the  rotting  peach. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  any  of  our  poets  could  have  written  these  lines  ex- 
cept Keats  —  Keats  to  whom  Lampman  was  so  strangely  affiliated.  Not  only 
in  the  love  of  sensuous  sounding  words  and  luxuriant  phrases  but  in  their 
very  attitude  toward  life  was  this  similarity  striking.  Neither  of  them  cared 
for  the  companionship  of  throngs  or  the  clamor  of  cities;  they  were  happiest 
if  they  could  be  *  wrapped  round  in  thought,  content  to  watch  and  dream.* 
Both  of  them  attempted  to  hold  and  reawaken  the  fleeting  sensations  of 
taste  and  touch  by  some  colorful  adjective  or  a  tinted  phrase  —  to  renew 
by  mere  words  the  spiritual  and  esthetic  emotions  and  pleasures  which  can- 
not be  reproduced.     Both  were  strongly  imbued  with  the  lyric  spirit,  and 


436  ARCHIBALD  LAMPMAN  AND  THE  SONNET 

each  of  them  completed  just  one  play.  Lampman,  however,  never  attained 
the  highest  peaks  of  song  but  for  a  few  golden  moments  —  his  singing  was 
never  of  that  sustained  and  godlike  beauty  that  is  the  epitome  of  Keats. 
But  if  he  lacked  this,  there  was  one  note  he  struck  most  effectively  that 
Keats  never  possessed.  And  that  was  the  note  of  poetic  psychology.  Not 
the  shadowy  and  equivocal  symbolism  that  so  many  of  our  really  able  writers 
affect,  nor  yet  the  merely  modern  '  realism  '  which  is  the  exaggerated  vision 
of  a  thing  that  is  not  even  real,  but  a  psychology  at  one  time  poetic  and 
searching  —  so  mysterious  that  it  clothes  with  beauty,  so  illuminating  that 
it  lays  bare.  Of  such  an  order  is  this  remarkable  poem  which,  by  the  way, 
is  included  with  four  other  selections  from  Lampman  in  Stedman's  *  Victo- 
rian Anthology.'  It  is  probably  the  only  widely  known  and  much-quoted 
of  all  his  works. 

A  FORECAST 

What  days  await  this  woman,  whose  strange  feet 

Breathe  spells,  whose  presence  makes  men  dream  like  wine. 

Tall,  free  and  slender  as  the  forest  pine; 
Whose  form  is  moulded  music,  throue;h  whose  sweet 
Frank  eyes  I  feel  the  very  heart's  least  beat. 

Keen,  passionate,  full  of  dreams  and  fire: 

How  in  the  end,  and  to  what  man's  desire 
Shall  all  this  yield,  whose  lips  shall  these  lips  meet  ? 
One  thing  I  know:  if  he  be  great  and  pure 
This  love,  this  fire,  this  beauty  shall  endure; 

Triumph  and  hope  shall  lead  him  by  the  palm; 
But  if  not  this,  some  differing  thing  he  be 
That  dream  shall  break  in  terror,  he  shall  see 

The  whirlwind  ripen,  where  he  sowed  the  calm. 

But  lest  it  be  thought  from  these  pages  that  Lampman  was  either  mute  or 
inglorious  in  any  other  but  the  sonnet  form,  let  it  be  understood  that  several 
of  his  ballads  such  as  '  The  Violinist,'  *  War,'  and  *  The  Vase  of  Ibu  Mokil  ' 
are  particularly  noteworthy;  that  his  *  David  and  Abigail '  (which  though  a 
three-act  play  he  has  called  even  more  fitly  '  a  poem  in  dialogue  ')  contains 
passages  of  rich  feeling  and  noble  declamation,  and  that  his  purely  songful 
lyrics  are  among  his  best  endeavors.  *  Between  the  Rapids,'  *  Easter  Eve,' 
'The  Song  of  Pan,'  and  '  Before  Sleep  '  are  each  of  them  a  perfect  expression 
which  no  art  could  better.  The  first  verse  of  the  last-named  is  so  ethereal 
that  it  would  be  unfair  not  to  quote  it  in  this  connection : 


LOUIS   UNTERMEYER  437 

'  Now  the  crouching  nets  of  sleep 

Stretch  about  and  gather  nigh, 
And  the  midnight  dim  and  deep 

Like  a  spirit  passes  by, 
Trailing  from  her  crystal  dress 
Dreams  and  silent  frostiness.' 

Nor  should  this  recital  end  without  including  these  brief  but  majestic  verses 
'With  the  Night': 

*  O  doubts,  dull  passions,  and  base  fears 

That  harassed  and  oppressed  the  day, 
Ye  poor  remorses  and  vain  tears. 
That  shook  this  house  of  clay; 

*  All  heaven  to  the  western  bars 

Is  glittering  with  the  darker  dawn; 
Here,  with  the  earth,  the  night,  the  stars, 
Ye  have  no  place:  begone!' 

Whether  Lampman  will  ever  be  one  of  those  whose  names  are  the  pride 
and  envy  of  the  world  is  answered  by  the  question  itself.  Whether  he  will 
even  achieve  the  subdued  glory  of  the  lesser  bards  is  a  doubtful  matter. 
Sometimes  one  thinks  his  voice  was  never  meant  for  earth,  but  for  *  some 
world  far  from  ours,  where  music  and  moonlight  and  feeling  are  one.'  It 
seems  that  a  tone  so  intense  and  rapturous  must  continue  to  vibrate  even 
after  the  singer  is  mute. 

But  even  if  all  this  ecstasy  should  perish,  if  all  the  lovely  color  should 
fade,  and  the  inspired  music  be  quite  forgotten,  the  spirit  beneath  them,  the 
divine  energy  that  wrought  these  wonders  can  never  die.  Whether  its 
reincarnation  will  be  that  of  a  singing  bird  or  a  dreaming  flower;  a  shaft 
of  spring  sunlight  or  even  another  poet  who  shall  blend  all  of  these,  no  one 
will  ever  know.  His  soul  was  as  careless  of  glorification  as  he  was  of  earthly 
fame.  He  renounced  ambition  and  his  whole  life  was  a  splendid  resigna- 
tion. Voicing  his  creed  he  summed  up  all  his  aims  and  aspirations  in  a 
humble  yet  glorious  cadence  when  he  sang: 

*  From  other  lips  let  stormy  numbers  flow. 

By  others  let  great  epics  be  compiled; 
For  me,  the  dreamer,  'tis  enough  to  know 

The  lyric  words,  the  fervour  sweet  and  wild. 
I  sit  me  in  the  windy  grass  and  grow 

As  wise  as  age,  as  joyous  as  a  child.' 


THE  SUPERNATURAL  IN  TWO 
RECENT  PLAYS 

By  O.  W.  Firkins 

IT  is  a  notable  fact  that  two  of  the  great  successes  in  recent  or,  more 
properly,  current  plays,  have  owed  their  motive  and  interest  to  the 
supernatural,  and  in  both  cases  it  has  been  a  variant  of  the  old- 
time  traditional  supernaturalism  that  has  achieved  the  success. 
*  The  Servant  in  the  House'  and  *  The  Devil '  are  distinguished 
from  secondary  work  like  '  The  Holy  City  '  and  *  The  Sign  of  the 
Cross  '  by  their  appeal  to  the  modern  taste;  yet  they  are  almost  equally 
distinguished  from  the  usual  type  of  modern  work  by  the  use  of  ancient  and, 
in  part,  at  least,  outworn  traditions  as  the  instrument  of  this  appeal. 
Strongly  contrasted  in  certain  essentials,  they  possess  the  kinship  so  often 
found  in  opposites.  In  each  a  supernatural  personage  not  only  figures, 
but  so  dominates,  n6t  to  say  monopolizes,  the  action  that  the  other  char- 
acters seem  little  more  than  the  passive  executants  of  his  will.  In  each  this 
personage  is  supreme  in  his  own  hierarchy;  in  the  one  case  we  have  an 
adumbration  of  the  Christ,  in  the  other  an  incarnation  of  the  devil.  In 
both  plays  this  agent  confines  his  operations  to  a  narrow  circle.  In  both,  a 
revolution  in  character,  in  the  one  case  a  redemptive,  in  the  other  a  destruc- 
tive change  is  carried  out  in  two  or  more  persons.  In  both  the  transforma- 
tion is  rapid,  occupying  in  one  instance  a  single  morning,  in  the  other  a 
period  of  about  twenty-four  hours.  Neither  play  is  enduring  literature; 
yet  each  moves  on  a  higher  level  than  that  of  vulgar  popularity. 

The  literary  and  dramatic  merits  of  these  works  is  a  subject  too  attrac- 
tive to  have  retained  its  freshness;  but  the  treatment  of  the  supernatural  in 
the  two  is  a  less  hackneyed  and  hardly  less  interesting  topic.  The  super- 
natural in  drama,  particularly  in  its  traditional  or  biblical  phase,  acquires 
new  interest  with  the  lapse  of  each  decade  of  a  critical  and  subversive  epoch, 
as  an  iceberg  becomes  more  curious  and  remarkable  with  each  new  stage 
of  its  descent  into  ungenial  latitudes.  Let  us  glance  briefly  at  this  side  of 
the  works,  referring  to  literary  and  dramatic  peculiarities  only  in  so  far  as 
they  grow  out  of  this  exceptional  material. 

The  Christ  in  '  1  he  Servant  in  the  House  '  is  not  the  historical  personage 
of  that  title;  he  is  a  great  deal  more,  and  therefore  a  great  deal  less,  than  the 

438 


O.  W.   FIRKINS  439 

authentic  Jesus  of  Nazareth.  His  Christship  is  superimposed,  as  it  were, 
upon  two  other  characters;  for  even  here,  with  what  might  seem  to  some 
persons  a  marked  propriety,  he  is  a  member  of  a  trinity.  He  is  ostensibly 
a  butler  in  a  private  English  family;  but  his  butlership  is  only  the  mask  of 
another  much  more  imposing  character,  that  of  an  English  bishop  just 
returned  from  the  oversight  of  a  diocese  in  India;  and  even  his  episcopacy 
falls  into  insignificance  beside  the  august  nature  of  his  third  function,  that 
of  a  type  or  representative  of  Christ.  The  effect  of  this  complexity  on  the 
spectator  is  a  good  deal  like  that  produced  on  Rogers,  the  refreshing  page 
boy,  who  avers  that  he  '  never  see  such  a  complicated  mass  of  mysteries 
and  improbabilities  in  (his)  life.'  We  do  not  know  where  to  find  this  elusive 
and  protean  personage;  each  of  his  parts  seem  to  be  playing  peek-a-boo 
with  us  from  behind  the  other;  at  a  given  moment  we  are  never  sure 
whether  we  are  to  meet  the  counterfeit  butler,  the  real  bishop,  or  the  sym- 
bolic Christ.  We  are  teased  and  perplexed  in  the  same  fashion  as  when  we 
follow  the  shifting  legends  of  the  lights  that  vanish  and  reappear  at  evening 
in  the  main  streets  of  our  cities.  It  is  hard  to  focus  any  one  of  his  three- 
fold functions:  we  cannot  be  expected  to  take  his  butlership  seriously,  when 
neither  he  nor  the  family  set  us  an  example;  his  Christship  is  only  inter- 
mittent; and  while  we  are  told  that  he  is  a  bishop,  the  author's  word  on  this 
point  is  uncorroborated  by  anything  that  he  says  or  does  throughout  the 
play. 

*  The  Servant  in  the  House  '  is  allegorical;  and,  whatever  may  be 
thought  of  the  merits  or  demerits  of  that  medieval  form  which  the  Eliza- 
bethans flung  aside  as  a  clog  and  encumbrance  when  they  girt  their  loins 
and  lightened  their  knapsacks  for  the  great  dramatic  race,  there  is  no 
question  as  to  the  fact  that  allegory  has  its  own  laws  to  which  every  sound 
specimen  of  the  class  must  conform.  Does  '  The  Servant  in  the  House  ' 
adhere  to  these  standards  .'' 

When  one  object  is  the  symbol  of  another,  it  is  clear  that  the  first  or 
primary  object  should  be  accurately  represented.  The  graft  must  not  kill 
the  tree;  the  superadded  meaning  must  not  destroy  or  distort  the  literal 
significance.  The  object  must  conform  both  to  its  primary  character  and 
to  its  ulterior  message;  and  the  propriety  of  symbolism  in  general  and  of 
the  choice  of  any  object  as  its  vehicle  both  rest  on  the  implied  ability  to 
conform  to  this  requirement.  If  a  butler  stands  for  Christ,  he  must  no 
more  do  things  that  are  improper  for  a  butler  than  he  must  do  things  that 
are  improper  for  a  Christ.  All  that  he  does  must  be  proper  to  both  char- 
acters; otherwise  the  wrong  symbol  has  been  chosen.  The  task  is  hard, 
no  doubt;    and  in  the  case  before  us  where  the  same  person  must  conform 


440      THE  SUPERNATURAL  IN  TWO  RECENT  PLAYS 

to  the  real  character  of  a  bishop,  the  simulated  character  of  a  butler,  and  the 
suggested  character  of  Christ,  the  requirement  is  almost  superhuman. 
But  difficulty  is  no  excuse  for  the  non-performance  of  a  self-chosen  task.  If 
a  man  offers  to  serve  both  as  cook  and  coachman,  after  the  fashion  of 
Moliere's  La  Fleche,  it  is  no  excuse  for  the  burning  of  the  mutton  chops 
that  at  the  critical  moment  he  was  called  to  harness  the  dapple  grays. 

Now  the  Manson  in  '  The  Servant  in  the  House '  says  and  does  things 
which  are  not  proper  either  to  a  real  bishop  or  a  mock  butler.  He  sees 
thefts  that  are  done  behind  his  back;  he  divines  plans  which  mere  humanity 
could  not  penetrate.  He  affirms  that  he  breakfasts  with  workingmen  every 
morning,  declares  people  have  trouble  in  recognizing  him  in  anything  but 
his  customary  garments,  speaks  of  his  own  name  as  rather  dangerous  to 
play  with,  talks  about  his  name  being  on  everybody's  lips.  He  declares 
himself  the  founder  of  a  church  which  cost  numberless  millions,  and  pro- 
ceeds forthwith  to  describe  an  edifice  of  which  no  modern  man,  either 
butler  or  bishop,  could  be  the  originator.  This  rhapsody  on  the  temple 
indeed,  in  its  undramatic  substance,  its  undramatic  language,  its  unsuit- 
ability  to  a  butler,  its  incongruity  with  the  English  temper,  its  divergence 
from  the  style  of  Christ,  whose  imagery,  however  oriental  in  its  abundance, 
is  as  plain  and  homely  in  its  drift  as  that  of  Swift  or  Bunyan,  its  delivery  to 
a  deaf  bishop  and  a  surly  blackguard,  accumulates  a  number  and  variety 
of  incongruities  which  even  allegory  could  scarcely  parallel.  Moreover, 
much  of  this  matter  which  we  refer  to  Christ  as  being  unsuitable  for  anybody 
else,  is,  properly  viewed,  quite  as  unsuitable  for  Christ  himself.  Much  that, 
descriptively,  is  in  accord  with  a  person's  character,  is,  dramatically,  quite 
out  of  place  in  his  mouth.  The  last  thing  attributable  to  real  deity  of  any 
kind  is  indulgence  in  flights  of  rhetoric,  double  meanings,  and  covert  sug- 
gestions of  the  unreality  of  the  part  he  has  decided  to  enact. 

It  may  be  safely  affirmed,  from  the  artistic  point  of  view,  that  in  all 
cases  where  a  man  is  united  with  a  god  or  demon  in  a  single  nature  it  is 
the  man  who  has  nothing  to  gain  and  everything  to  lose  by  the  consolidation. 
The  artistic  values,  distinctness,  power,  realism,  subsist  in  the  human  factor, 
and  the  god  or  friend  is  parasitic.  If  a  god  is  the  datum,  the  premise,  it  is 
the  height  of  wisdom  to  embody  him  in  a  man;  but  by  the  same  principle,  if 
the  man  is  our  starting  point  it  is  unwise  to  solder  him  with  a  divinity. 
Deification,  for  the  dramatist's  purpose,  is  as  undesirable  for  men  as  human- 
ization  is  expedient  for  deities.  Even  the  virtuous  spirit,  the  god,  acts  the 
part  of  a  succubus  or  vampire  toward  the  human  being  with  whom  he  is 
associated.  Allegory  is  governed  by  a  similar  law.  In  its  common  form 
a  human  being  is  used  as  the  symbol  of  a  principle  or  essence,  and  the  human 


O.   W.   FIRKINS  441 

element  is  weakened  and  deadened  to  the  exact  extent  that  the  abstraction 
is  enriched  and  vivified  by  the  unequal  partnership.  It  follows  that  a  large 
class  of  persons  for  whom  a  man  is  greater  than  a  truth  or  attribute  regard 
that  form  of  human  sacrifice  known  as  allegory  as  being  like  the  other  forms 
of  the  practice,  the  product  and  index  of  a  primitive  age.  It  is  felt  as  an 
exchange  of  the  greater  for  the  less,  not  unlike  that  of  the  luxurious  patri- 
cians of  Rome  who  gave  the  blood  of  their  slaves  to  sustain  the  cold  and 
lethargic  life  of  the  fish  they  nourished  for  their  tables.  Now  '  The  Servant 
in  the  House  '  has  to  reckon  with  both  these  handicaps,  the  fact  that  it 
mixes  the  human  with  the  supernatural,  and  the  fact  that  this  mixture  is 
accomplished,  not  by  incarnation,  but  by  symbol  or  allegory.  Jesus  Christ 
is  indeed  no  such  colorless  and  featureless  abstraction  as  truth  or  virtue  or 
charity,  but  he  shares  in  his  own  degree  in  the  limitations  of  these  elusive 
principles.  Every  one  will  recognize  the  enfeeblement  and  attenuation 
undergone  by  an  historical  or  legendary  person,  such  as  Adam,  Abraham, 
or  Moses,  the  moment  we  begin  to  view  him  as  an  emblem  or  type  of  Christ; 
the  virtue  is  drained  off  from  the  man  into  the  symbolism.  The  vitality  of 
a  modern  character  in  fiction  is  depleted  in  the  same  way  by  fusion  with 
the  idea  of  godhead;  we  destroy  the  man  without  achieving  the  divinity. 

There  are  two  other  points  in  which  the  treatment  of  the  semi-divine 
personage  in  '  The  Servant  in  the  House  '  is  worthy  of  special  notice.  Every 
one  feels  that  a  deity  should  not  be  a  talker,  that  silence  is  the  perfectest 
herald,  not  merely  of  joy,  but  of  godhead.  Dignity,  as  even  sovereigns  have 
felt,  depends  largely  on  reserve;  and  in  the  treatment  of  deity  the  artist 
perceives  that  reticence  is  safety.  The  discursive  and  argumentative  Christ 
of  the  '  Paradise  Regained  '  makes  a  poor  showing  beside  the  austere  and 
august  brevity  of  the  scriptural  Jesus, —  a  brevity  never  more  evident  or 
impressive  than  in  his  longest  and  most  formal  discourses.  Now  the 
author  of  *  The  Servant  in  the  House  '  has  felt  the  wisdom  of  this  course, 
and  throughout  most  of  the  play  Manson  speaks  with  a  trenchant  brevity 
which  suits  both  the  lowliness  and  the  grandeur  of  his  combined  and  con- 
trasted functions.  But  the  temptations  of  eloquence  and  dithyramb  in  the 
church-building  speech  above  referred  to  have  been  too  much  for  the  author's 
fortitude,  and  Manson  mounts  the  pulpit,  the  bishop  profiting  for  the  mo- 
ment by  the  effacement  both  of  the  butler  and  the  Christ.  His  great  proto- 
type resisted  the  temptation  which  beset  him  on  the  pinnacle  of  a  temple, 
but  Manson  has  cast  himself  down  from  its  summit  in  obedience  to  a  mis- 
leading voice. 

There  is  another  point  in  which  the  author  has  formed  the  right  ideal, 
but  has  failed  in  loyalty  to  his  own  insight.     Manson  is  '  The  Servant  in 


442      THE   SUPERNATURAL   IN  TWO  RECENT  PLAYS 

the  House,'  for  the  same  reason,  no  doubt,  that  Jesus  was  born  in  a  stable 
and  served  as  a  carpenter's  apprentice.  The  humility  of  the  station  and 
function  was  felt  to  be  the  highest  emphasis  that  could  be  put  on  a  power 
and  dignity  which  transcended  all  distinctions  of  status.  This  is  a  true 
and  refined  conception,  and  is  successfully  carried  out  through  the  first 
three  acts;  but  the  whole  point  of  this  moral  ascendancy  of  the  servant  is 
blunted,  if  not  positively  broken,  when  the  butler,  in  the  fourth  act,  is  forced 
to  ask  and  obtain  the  dictatorship  of  the  family  for  an  hour.  The  emphasis 
is  now  transferred  to  the  inability  of  Manson  to  achieve  his  ends  through 
the  purely  moral  forces  at  the  disposal  of  a  domestic.  The  demonstration 
of  the  might  of  mere  character  —  the  only  rational  end  of  the  disguise  —  is 
annulled  by  the  investment  of  character  with  authority.  We  are  curious 
to  know  what  a  common  butler  could  do,  if  he  were  good  and  great;  what 
a  butler  who  is  regent  of  the  house  could  do  is  a  question  of  minor  interest. 

That  the  moral  effect  of  a  play  like  *  The  Servant  in  the  House  '  is 
wholesome  as  far  as  it  goes  is  undeniable;  as  to  how  far  it  goes  opinions  will 
doubtless  differ.  The  unique  trait  in  the  play  is  the  attribution  of  the  moral 
influence  to  a  semi-divine,  not  a  purely  human,  being.  Is  anything  gained  by 
this  peculiar  attribution  ^  Are  we  moved  less  or  more  by  a  virtue  through 
the  fact  that  it  springs  from  God,  not  man  .?  It  is  certainly  true  that  good- 
ness commonly  stirs  us  in  the  ratio,  not  of  the  loftiness,  but  of  the  lowliness, 
of  its  source.  As  flowers  nowhere  impress  us  so  little  as  at  the  florist's,  so 
virtue  is  least  moving  at  its  origin  or  headquarters.  God,  as  it  were,  makes 
a  specialty  of  goodness,  and  we  are  not  amazed  that  a  man  or  god  should  be 
proficient  in  his  specialty.  A  bishop's  honesty  impresses  us  less  than  a 
shoeblack's  to  the  exact  extent  that  it  is  more  professional.  We  are  not 
stirred  by  the  perfection  of  God;  we  reflect,  crudely  perhaps,  that  perfection 
is  in  his  line.  The  exertion  of  an  influence  similar  to  Manson's  by  a  mere 
human  being  in  the  actual  place  of  a  servant  might  have  edified  us  more 
than  this  contemplation  of  great  results  emanating  from  forces  which  we 
cannot  understand  or  measure. 

Another  barrier  to  our  appreciation  of  the  virtues  of  deities  is  that  they 
commonly  strike  us  as  inexpensive.  The  singular  power  of  the  Christ  and 
Buddha  stories  over  the  heart  of  mankind  lies  largely  in  the  fact  that  in 
exacting  sacrifice  from  the  divine  power  they  have  removed  this  interdict 
on  sympathy.  The  case  of  Manson  illustrates  the  more  usual  situation. 
His  goodness  costs  him  little  or  nothing.  The  demands  made  upon  him  are 
for  advice  and  supervision,  forms  of  service  to  fellowman  in  which  even 
fallen  human  nature  has  found  no  overwhelming  difficulty.  These  are 
functions,  moreover,  which  are  generally  admitted  to  be  rather  useful  than 


O.   W.   FIRKINS  443 

endearing,  Manson,  measured  by  the  relaxed  standard  which  we  instinc- 
tively apply  to  paragons,  is  by  no  means  a  bad  fellow.  With  his  cargo  of 
merits  another  man  might  have  been  simply  insupportable.  But  for  all 
that  he  is  not  quite  the  person  whom  one  would  choose  for  a  seatmate  or  a 
playmate  or  a  hearthmate.  His  presence  in  the  house  would  certainly 
make  the  sinners  uncomfortable,  but  would  it  not  also  make  the  virtuous 
uneasy  ?  He  has  a  preoccupation  with  moral  judgments  which  is  not 
commonly  ranked  among  the  desiderata  of  a  good  companion,  and  his 
sympathies,  broad  and  inclusive  as  the  sky,  are  like  the  sky  impersonal  and 
universal.  A  roof  is  lower  and  smaller,  but  it  holds  the  warmth  more 
securely.  Were  Manson  merely  human,  we  should  class  him  as  the  sort 
of  man  in  whose  existence  and  in  whose  rarity  we  find  equal  proofs  of  the 
bounty  of  an  overruling  providence. 

It  may  be  questioned,  therefore,  whether  the  ethics  of  *  The  Servant 
in  the  House  '  derive  any  added  power  from  their  immediate  efflux  from  a 
quasi-supernatural  being.  The  same  virtue  in  a  man  might  have  been  even 
more  efficacious. 

The  moral  tendency  of  the  English  play  admits  of  no  dispute;  the 
same  cannot  be  affirmed  of  the  Hungarian  drama  which  agrees  with  it  in  its 
bold  appropriation  of  the  old  time  supernaturalism  to  the  service  of  current 
sentiments  and  purposes.  Not  that  there  is  very  much  purpose  in  '  The 
Devil  '  ;  it  is  suggestive,  rather,  of  reckless  caprice  or  audacious  trifling. 
Its  author  may,  for  aught  I  know  to  the  contrary,  be  the  exemplar  of  all  the 
private  and  domestic  virtues,  but  there  is  an  aroma  in  his  work  that  suggests 
the  man  to  whom  one  would  sooner  commit  any  other  charge  than  the  care 
of  a  young  and  handsome  female  relative.  Yet  there  is  often  as  wide  a  gulf 
between  character  and  intentions  on  the  part  of  an  author  as  there  is  between 
intention  and  result  in  the  composition  of  the  work.  Whatever  the  writer 
may  have  felt  or  meant,  it  is  hard  to  see  how  '  The  Devil  '  as  it  stands  can 
be  reckoned  an  immoral  play.  The  principle  or  evil  appears  in  person,  and, 
in  the  course  of  twenty-four  hours,  succeeds  in  luring  or  rather  goading  two 
weak  but  well-meaning  persons  into  the  commission  of  a  sexual  crime.  An 
offense  of  this  sort  is  surely  not  recommended  to  general  imitation  by  its 
ascription  to  the  direct  promptings  of  the  author  of  all  evil,  particularly 
when  that  author  is  himself  unprepossessing.  Moreover,  there  is  a  peculiar 
ignominy  in  the  state  to  which  the  lovers  are  finally  reduced  which  makes  it 
all  but  impossible,  not  merely  to  approve  or  share,  but  even  to  credit  their 
felicity.  One  can  see  how  a  man  who  is  neither  a  churl  nor  a  rake  might 
envy  the  illicit  joys  of  a  Lancelot  and  Guinevere,  a  Paolo  and  Francesca, 
perhaps  even  an  Armand  and  Camille;    but  it  is  hard  so  see  how  even  a 


444      THE  SUPERNATURAL  IN  TWO   RECENT   PLAYS 

Don  Juan  or  Lovelace,  how  any  one,  in  fact,  short  of  a  CaHban,  could  feel 
anything  but  contempt  for  the  state  of  those  two  benighted  puppets,  harried 
and  hustled  into  a  crime  equally  wanting  in  the  dignity  of  a  clear  resolve  or 
the  strength  of  an  unprompted  impulse.  Few  men  would  care  to  be  sen- 
tenced to  this  form  of  happiness,  and  to  make  vice  contemptible  is  a  more 
effective  deterrent  than  to  make  it  terrible  or  revolting. 

Passing  on  to  the  subject  of  our  main  inquiry,  we  ask  ourselves  what  old 
or  new  variety  of  devil  the  drama  offers  for  our  study.  In  the  first  place, 
we  note  in  the  person  in  question  the  faintness  of  the  tincture  of  the  super- 
natural. Beyond  a  few  passing  allusions,  which  are  mere  credentials,  the 
presentation  of  his  card  to  the  audience,  so  to  speak,  there  is  nothing  in  his 
language  or  his  acts  beyond  the  power  or  the  malignity  of  an  able  and  de- 
praved human  being.  The  effects  of  the  acts  and  words  are  another  matter, 
on  which  an  observation  must  be  made  later  on;  but  aside  from  the  mo- 
mentary dallyings  with  his  biography  and  his  domicile,  the  devil  says  and 
does  nothing  impossible  to  human  nature.  Here,  again,  one  wonders  if  in  the 
ascription  of  these  vices  a  mere  human  agent  would  not  have  given  them  an 
emphasis  which  they  cannot  possess  in  a  being  in  whom  vice  is  the  basis  and 
staple  of  existence.  When  bad  things  are  done  by  the  Prince  of  Darkness, 
we  say  to  ourselves  as  Luther  is  said  to  have  done  when  he  heard  the  fiend 
stalking  about  the  house  at  night,  '  Oh,  it's  only  the  devil,'  and  resume  our 
interrupted  labors.  The  calling  in  of  a  supernatural  being  to  carry  out  an 
artist's  designs  in  a  way  of  brutality  and  iniquity  seems  a  needless  and  un- 
deserved reflection  on  the  proved  efficiency  of  man  himself  in  those  direc- 
tions. The  author  of  this  play  has  had  the  wisdom  to  lay  aside  the  jugglery 
and  trickery  which  amused  Marlowe  in  his  '  Faustus '  and  even  the  mature 
and  serene  Goethe  in  his  *  Faust,'  but  is  not  the  retention  of  the  old  name  or 
mask,  when  the  character  and  conduct  have  become  thoroughly  humanized, 
itself  a  juggle  which  might  well  follow  the  rest  to  the  lumber  room  ? 

The  devil  of  the  contemporary  play  is  not  a  great  literary  figure,  but 
he  has  points  of  contact  with  originality.  In  his  make-up  we  find  a  trace  of 
Pandarus,  Chaucer's  Pandarus,  without  the  good  humor  and  the  naivete, 
a  trace  of  Falstaff  in  his  coarse  but  prodigal  vitality,  and  rather  more  than  a 
trace  of  the  Goethean  Mephistopheles  in  his  mocking  wit  and  his  curious 
blendingof  gusto  and  insouciance.  He  is  one  of  the  temperamental  devils,  with 
a  strong  animal  basis  which,  however,  serves  less  to  shape  his  own  conduct 
than  to  direct  the  cynical  and  sensual  philosophy  in  which  his  active  though 
narrow  mind  finds  its  main  sustenance  and  delectation.  He  is  not  only 
a  self-sufficient  but  a  self-sufficing  personage,  for  whom  the  quarry  is  of  less 
account  than  the  chase,  and  the  chase  itself  hardly  more  important  than  the 


O.  W.   FIRKINS  445 

trimness  of  his  own  figure  in  the  hunting  jacket.  He  is  a  happy  devil; 
indeed  it  must  be  said  of  the  devils  in  general  from  the  uncomplaining  and 
contented  Satan  of  the  Scriptures  to  the  lively  and  sportive  Mephistopheles 
of  *  Faust,'  that  they  have  kept  up  their  spirits  under  adverse  circumstances 
in  a  fashion  worthy  of  the  admiration  and  the  imitation  of  the  saints.  But 
the  devil  of  the  recent  play  is  distinguished,  even  in  this  cheerful  company, 
for  high  spirits  and  unruffled  self-content.  He  has,  indeed,  no  excuse  for 
not  being  happy;  he  likes  himself,  and  he  is  always  successful. 

It  is  no  surprise  to  find  that  he  belongs  to  the  class  of  loquacious  demons. 
The  motto,  '  Let  losers  talk,'  has  always  found  one  of  its  main  applications 
in  the  chief  loser  in  the  first  and  greatest  of  all  games  that  was  played  for 
the  lordship  of  the  universe.  The  talking  propensity  did  not  show  itself  at 
once.  The  Satan  of  the  Bible  is  an  industrious  and  self-contained  work- 
man, conspicuous  mainly  by  his  modesty  and  reserve,  uttering  hardly  more 
than  two  or  three  hundred  words  during  the  course  of  his  recorded  opera- 
tions. But  later  on  he  was  captivated  by  the  romantic  splendor  of  his  own 
unique  and  startling  role  in  the  great  drama  of  the  earth  and  heavens.  He 
ceased  to  be  a  workman  in  the  fatal  moment  when  he  found  that  he  was  a 
personage.  The  capture  of  souls  became  a  mere  incident  in  the  life  of  a 
being  whose  main  function  was  the  exploitation  of  his  own  distinctions  and 
peculiarities.  The  Satan  of  the  *  Paradise  Lost '  finds  an  assuagement  even 
of  the  mournful  gloom  and  the  burning  marl  in  the  dexterities  of  his  superb 
rhetoric.  Byron's  Lucifer  showed  his  parentage  in  his  vivid  sense  of  the 
effectiveness,  from  a  picturesque  and  literary  standpoint,  of  his  own  situa- 
tion and  attitude.  The  Mephistopheles  of  Goethe's  poem  is  as  happy  to  find 
an  audience  as  a  victim.  He  clings  to  Faust  with  a  tenacity  which  suggests 
less  an  avarice  of  souls  than  obtuseness  on  the  part  of  his  normal  associates 
in  hell  to  the  piquancies  of  a  corrosive  wit.  Had  his  victorious  enemy  cut 
out  his  tongue,  further  damnation  would  have  been  superfluous.  The  devil 
who  now  interests  us  is  of  the  same  talkative  and  self-exploiting  breed. 
The  peopling  of  the  inferno  is  with  him  only  a  secondary  object;  what  he 
really  likes  to  do  is  to  sun  himself  in  the  admiration  of  the  shuddering  but 
cringing  human  race.  He  is  interested  in  the  trapping  of  men  and  women; 
but  if  it  came  to  a  choice  between  a  soul  and  a  bon  mot  the  soul  would  be 
regretfully  but  unhesitatingly  relinquished. 

The  purpose  of  his  witticisms  is  to  bring  out  the  frailties  and  bestialities 
of  human  nature,  to  perform  an  analysis  of  man's  spirit  which  shall  leave  only 
the  sediment,  in  other  words,  the  mud.  As  the  composition  of  dust  into 
man  was  the  congenial  work  of  the  divine  spirit,  so  the  resolution  of  man  into 
slime  is  the  converse  office  of  the  devil.     It  may  be  remarked  in  passing  that 


446      THE  SUPERNATURAL  IN  TWO  RECENT  PLAYS 

all  this  unction  in  probing  human  weakness  is  out  of  keeping  with  the  char- 
acter of  an  authentic  Satan.  The  being  who  had  played  the  game  for  thou- 
sands of  years  would  be  as  little  likely  to  revel  in  the  infirmities  of  man  as  a 
veteran  angler  to  chuckle  over  the  gullibility  of  fishes. 

There  is  one  further  point  of  interest  in  the  supernatural  element  in 
*  The  Devil '  which  relates  it  in  a  significant  way  to  '  The  Servant  in  the 
House.'  The  devil's  triumph,  as  we  have  seen,  is  absolute;  but  he  is  far 
from  being  a  profound  or  even  an  adroit  tempter.  Many  a  half-fledged 
Lothario  would  smile  at  the  clumsiness,  not  to  say  perversity,  of  his  methods. 
If  one  had  a  wife  who  had  to  be  tempted  by  somebody,  there  is  no  one  whom 
one  could  more  cheerfully  see  installed  in  the  role  of  Don  Juan  than  this 
supposed  embodiment  of  wiliness  and  dexterity.  The  persons  whom  he 
wishes  to  bring  under  the  domination  of  the  senses  are  generous  idealists; 
and  the  strategy  which  he  adopts  is  the  ruthless  exposure  of  all  that  is  earthy 
and  bestial  in  the  passion  that  allures  them.  Dealing  with  characters  with 
whom  drapery  and  disguise  are  imperative,  he  pursues  the  plan  of  uncom- 
promising disillusion.  In  the  details  of  the  action,  his  choice  of  means  is 
equally  impolitic.  He  appears  in  a  place  where  his  presence  is  suspicious 
and  vexatious,  he  bullies  and  insults  the  persons  whose  trust  and  good  will 
it  is  indispensable  to  gain,  he  incurs  the  needless  hate  of  half  a  dozen  leading 
persons  in  a  society  in  which  his  footing  is  a  matter  of  moment  to  his  own 
purpose,  he  suggests  indecorums  which  are  also  puerilities  to  a  well-bred 
and  self-respecting  woman,  he  dictates  a  letter  in  which  the  contradiction 
between  the  assumed  and  the  actual  purport  would  be  clear  to  an  intelligent 
child,  he  works  in  short  for  the  undoing  of  his  own  cause  with  a  zeal  that 
might  furnish  a  model  to  evangelists  and  missionaries  ?  How,  then,  does 
he  succeed  ?  The  answer  is  simple  enough :  He  is  the  devil.  He  reveals 
a  contempt  for  methods  which  implies  a  command  of  the  results.  We  are 
left  to  suppose  that  there  is  some  emanation  from  his  personality,  some 
supernatural  efflux,  which  reinforces  the  feeble  inducements,  or  oflFsets  the 
powerful  deterrents,  which  his  policy  offers  to  the  consummation  of  his  will. 

It  is  remarkable  that  a  like  hypothesis  is  required  for  the  explanation 
of  the  results  in  *  The  Servant  in  the  House  '  :  Manson  does  things  which 
no  mere  man,  whether  butler  or  bishop,  could  effect  by  normal  means  in 
two  or  three  hours.  Neither  the  sideboard  nor  the  altar  supplies  any  elixir 
which  can  justify  the  swiftness  of  these  transformations.  How  does  he 
convert  the  scavenger  ?  Apparently,  by  a  flowery  discourse,  clinched  by 
an  allusion  to  comrades  hammering  in  a  dome.  How  does  he  convert  the 
vicar  f  Presumably  by  about  ten  minutes  of  colloquy  in  the  course  of  which 
he  says  that  his  religion  is  to  love  God  and  all  his  brothers.     How  does  he 


O.   W.   FIRKINS  447 

convert  the  vicar's  wife  ?  The  answer  must  be  left  to  the  subtlety  of  the 
devout  reader.  There  are,  of  course,  magnetic  and  dominating  person- 
alities, but  even  these  require  longer  times  and  ampler  means  for  their 
achievements.  To  account  for  the  effects,  we  must  recur  to  the  super- 
human potency  in  Manson;  we  must  suppose  that  he  transforms  souls  by 
a  force  entirely  outside  of  the  operation  of  normal  feelings  and  motives. 

The  correspondence  of  the  two  plays  in  this  particular  is  exact:  the 
only  means  by  which  we  can  account  for  the  ruin  of  two  persons  in  twenty- 
four  hours  or  the  salvation  of  four  others  in  less  than  three  by  the  use  of  re- 
sources so  clumsy  or  insufficient  is  the  supposition  that  these  persons  act 
under  a  supernatural  coercion,  under  a  temporary  displacement,  in  other 
words,  of  those  conditions  of  free  will  and  rational  motive  which  are  the 
foundations  both  of  ethics  and  drama.  The  assumption  of  any  such  mar- 
velous potency  is  the  negation  of  true  art.  The  introduction  of  a  force  that 
is  both  unknown  and  unlimited,  in  seeming  to  broaden  the  scope  of  art, 
really  leaves  it  helpless:  for  with  the  unknown,  recognition,  the  first  of 
esthetic  pleasures,  is  impossible;  and  with  the  unlimited,  artistic  skill,  that 
is  to  say  the  evolution  of  a  result  within  fixed  limits,  is  equally  out  of  the 
question.  What  interest  could  there  be  in  watching  a  game  of  chess  in 
which  the  moves  were  new  and  unknown  to  the  spectator,  or,  again,  what 
interest  could  attach  to  a  game  in  which  every  piece  was  allowed  to  move 
anyhow  or  anywhere  ?  The  great  literary  artists  have  shown  a  wise  reserve 
in  their  handling  of  the  supernatural.  They  suspend  the  laws  of  matter  in 
favor  of  their  superhuman  entities;  but  they  keep  inviolate  the  laws  of  mirid. 
The  ghost  in  Hamlet  and  the  witches  in  Macbeth  appear  and  vanish  under 
conditions  unknown  to  the  laws  of  physics,  but  their^words  operate  upon  the 
mind  of  the  ambitious  thane  and  the  brooding  prince  in  precisely  the  same 
way  that  the  words  of  common  human  beings  (if  believed  to  be  supernatural) 
would  operate.  They  produce  no  moral  effect  which  might  not  equally 
have  been  produced  by  successful  imposture.  Human  will  and  human 
motives  remain  normal  in  their  presence. 

The  narratives  of  the  four  Gospels  in  the  New  Testament,  if  we  take 
them  as  they  stand,  afford  a  curious  instance  of  the  distinction  between 
physical  and  what  we  may  perhaps  call  moral  miracles.  The  suspensions 
of  the  laws  of  matter  are  incessant,  but  they  are  unaccompanied  with  any 
deflection  or  displacement  in  the  laws  of  mind.  Bodies  are  healed  by  super- 
human methods,  but  minds  feel,  will,  and  act  according  to  natural  and  fa- 
miliar laws.  In  fact,  the  object  of  the  physical  anomalies  is  to  obviate  the 
need  of  moral  ones;  miracles  are  performed  to  render  belief  rational,  in 
other  words,  to  enable  men  to  believe  in  obedience  to,  not  in  dissonance  with, 


448      THE  SUPERNATURAL  IN  TWO  RECENT  PLAYS 

their  psychology,  their  human  constitution.  With  the  descent  of  the  Holy 
Ghost  in  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles,  the  moral  miracle  comes  into  play.  We 
admit  the  physical  marvel  in  narrative  and  drama,  because  we  instinctively 
feel  that  in  ordinary  fiction  matter  is  the  secondary  consideration,  and 
a  little  toying  or  tinkering  with  its  possibilities  leaves  the  essential 
psychological  interest  intact.  But  in  a  narrative  where,  as  in  some  of  Poe's 
and  Verne's,  the  material  or  physical  problem  should  be  uppermost,  the 
introduction  of  an  external  miracle  would  be  felt  to  be  as  obtrusive  and  de- 
structive as  a  psychological  somersault  in  other  work.  ^vf 
The  common  peculiarity  of  *  The  Servant  in  the  House  '  and  *  The 
Devil  '  is  that  in  accepting  a  superhuman  or  quasi-superhuman  being  as 
hero,  they  have  both  courageously  thrown  aside  almost  all  of  the  luggage 
of  external  miracle,  while  both  have  fallen  into  the  graver  though  subtler 
error  of  introducing  marvel  or  inconsequence  into  the  domain  of  thought, 
feeling,  and  will.  Drama  and  ethics  are  alike  conditioned  on  the  integrity 
and  freedom  of  the  moral  nature.  The  characters  in  both  plays  are  puppets 
to  the  precise  extent  of  the  discrepancy  between  their  alleged  conduct  and 
the  probabilities.  The  forces  under  which  they  act  are,  or  may  be,  omni- 
potent; and  the  victories  of  omnipotence  are  uninteresting.  A  fact  of  this 
kind,  while  equally  damaging  to  the  dramatic  force  of  both  plays,  has  a 
curiously  opposite  effect  on  their  moral  tendency:  it  extracts  much  of  the 
tonic  from  *  The  Servant  in  the  House,'  while  it  removes  half  the  venom 
from  *  The  Devil.' 


MUSAEUS'S  'HERO  AND  LEANDER; 
A  GREEK  SEA  IDYL' 

i 
By  Elizabeth  Hazelton  Haight 

/  never  think  of  poor  Leanders  fate. 

And  how  he  swam,  and  how  his  bride  sat  late. 

And  watched  the  dreadful  dawning  of  the  light. 
But  as  I  would  of  two  that  died  last  night. 

So  might  they  now  have  lived,  and  so  have  died; 

The  story's  heart,  to  me,  still  beats  against  its  side. 

— Leigh  Hunt 

THE  episode  of  Hero  and  Leander  is  well  known,  but  few  read 
Musaeus's  charming  rendering  of  it.  Musaeus  was  a  gram- 
marian who  wrote,  probably  in  the  fifth  century,  this  little 
poem  of  three  hundred  and  forty  hexameters.  He  was  con- 
fused by  the  scholars  of  the  Greek  renaissance  with  the  semi- 
mythic  bard  of  the  Orphean  age,  and  this  *  Hero  and  Le- 
ander '  was  believed  to  be  the  earliest  of  Greek  poems.  Symonds  tells  us 
that  when  Aldus  Manutius  conceived  his  great  idea  of  issuing  Greek  litera- 
ture entire  from  the  Venetian  press,  he  put  forth  *  Hero  and  Leander  '  first 
of  all  in  1498,  with  a  preface  that  ran  as  follows:  '  I  was  desirous  that  Mu- 
saeusjthe  most  ancient  poet,  should  form  a  prelude  to  Aristotle  and  the  other 
sages  who  will  shortly  be  imprinted  at  my  hands.'  Marlowe  spoke  of 
*  divine  Musaeus  '  and  Chapman  prefixed  to  his  translation  the  title  '  The 
Divine  Poem  of  Musaeus,  First  t)f  all  Bookes.'  Even  a  scholar  like  the 
elder  Scaliger  was  deceived  about  its  age,  and  it  remained  for  Casaubon  and 
later  Schwabe  to  determine  its  period  from  its  style  and  meter  and  its  imita- 
tion of  Nonnus,  a  fourth  century  epic  writer.  It  is  as  Kochly  fittingly  named 
it,  the  last  rose  in  the  dying  garden  of  Greek  verse.  Although  the  poem  is 
very  late  Greek,  it  has  an  exquisite  sweetness  of  style  and  an  unconscious 
purity  of  feeling  that  seems  at  times  Homeric.  John  Addington  Symonds's 
comments  voice  its  charm. 

'  The  poem  is,'  he  says,  '  both  an  epic  and  an  idyl.  WTiile  maintaining 
the  old  heroic  style  of  narrative  by  means  of  repeated  lines,  it  recalls  the 
sweetness  of  Theocritus  in  studied  descriptions,  dactylic  cadences,  and  brief 

449 


450  MUSAEUS'S   '  HERO  AND  LEANDER  ' 

reflective  sayings  that  reveal  the  poet's  mind.  Like  some  engraved  gems, 
the  latest  products  of  the  glyphic  art,  this  poem  adjusts  the  breadth  of  the 
grand  manner  to  the  small  scale  required  by  jewelry,  treating  a  full  subject 
in  a  narrow  space,  and  in  return  endowing  slight  motives  with  dignity  by 
nobleness  of  handling.' 

Symonds's  whole  delightful  appreciation  of  Musaeus*  should  be  read 
with  the  poem.  He  suggests  there  possibilities  of  a  comparative  study  be- 
tween Musaeus's  and  Marlowe's  rendering  of  the  story.  I  have  hoped  by  my 
translation  to  make  the  poem  more  accessible  to  students  of  English  litera- 
ture and  also  to  familiarize  general  readers  with  a  tale  of  hapless  young  love 
that  deserves  a  place  beside  '  Romeo  and  Juliet '  and  *  Paolo  and  Francesca.* 

Musaeus's  *  Hero  and  Leander  ' 

Sing,  goddess,  of  a  lamp  that  witnessed  secret  loves  and  of  a  swimmer  who 
crossed  the  sea  each  night  to  his  bride,  and  of  a  marriage  in  the  dark  which 
immortal  Dawn  did  not  behold,  and  of  Sestus  and  Abydus  where  was  the 
midnight  marriage  of  Hero.  I  hear  your  song  of  Leander's  swimming  and 
of  the  lamp,  the  lamp  which  gave  safe  conduct  in  Aphrodite's  service,  the 
attendant  who  presided  over  Hero's  nuptials  in  the  night,  the  lamp  which 
in  honor  of  love  Zeus  ought  to  have  taken  after  its  nightly  toils  to  the  assem- 
blage of  the  stars  and  to  have  named  the  bridal  star  of  lovers,  because  it  was 
the  helper  of  love  pangs,  and  it  guarded  its  sign  for  those  sleepless  meetings 
until  the  hostile  wind  blew  on  it  its  unfavorable  breath.  Come  now,  join  in 
my  song  of  the  common  end  of  the  light  quenched  and  Leander  lost. 

Sestus  and  Abydus  were  opposite  each  other.  Neighboring  cities  near 
the  sea  were  they.  Now  Eros,  stretching  his  bow,  shot  one  arrow  at  both 
cities  and  smote  a  youth  and  a  maiden.  Their  names  were  Leander,  the 
lovely,  and  Hero,  the  maid.  She  dwelt  in  Sestus,  he  in  the  citadel  of  Abydus, 
and  both  were  the  fair  stars  of  their  cities  twain.  They  were  like  each  other. 
Do  you,  if  e'er  you  fare  that  way,  search,  prithee,  for  a  certain  tower  where 
once  Hero  of  Sestus  dwelt  and  set  her  light  for  Leander's  guidance.  And 
seek  the  echoing  strait  of  the  sea  at  ancient  Abydus  which  even  yet  laments 
the  fate  and  love  of  Leander.  But  how  did  Leander,  who  made  his  home 
in  Abydus,  fall  into  longing  for  Hero,  and  how  did  he  bind  the  girl  too  with 
longing  ? 

Beautiful  Hero,  descendant  of  the  gods,  was  a  priestess  of  the  Cyprian. 
She  was  untaught  in  marriage  rites,  and  she  dwelt  away  from  her  parents 
in  a  tower  with  the  sea  for  neighbor,  another  lady  Cypris.  And  through 
wisdom  and  modesty  she  never  met  with  the  women  in  their  gatherings, 

*J.  A.  Symonds,  '  The  Greek  Poets,'  Vol  II.  Chap.  22. 


ELIZABETH   HAZELTON  HAIGHT  451 

nor  took  part  in  the  delightful  dance  with  the  girls  of  her  age,  avoiding  the 
jealous  criticism  of  women.  For  women  are  jealous  in  the  case  of  beauty. 
But  always  she  used  to  propitiate  Cytherean  Aphrodite  and  frequently  she 
used  to  appease  Eros  also  with  burnt  offerings,  for  she  dreaded  alike  his 
heavenly  mother  and  his  blazing  quiver.  Yet  not  thus  did  she  escape  his 
fire-breathing  arrows. 

For  the  public  festival  of  the  Cyprian  came  which  men  celebrate  through- 
out Sestus  to  Adonis  and  Cythereia  and  those  who  dwelt  on  the  shores  of 
sea-girt  isles,  and  men  from  Haemonia  and  men  from  Cyprus  in  the  sea 
made  haste  to  gather  for  the  sacred  day.  No  woman  remained  in  the  cities 
of  Cythera,  no  one  was  left  dancing  on  the  heights  of  fragrant  Libanus;  no 
one  of  all  who  dwelt  near  failed  to  come  to  the  festival,  no  inhabitant  of 
Phrygia,  or  of  the  neighboring  city  of  Abydus,  especially  no  youth  who  was 
fond  of  maidens.  For  the  lads  always  came  when  there  was  a  rumor  of  a 
festival,  not  so  much  because  they  hastened  to  bring  sacrifices  to  the  im- 
mortal gods  as  because  of  the  beauty  of  the  girls  who  gathered  together. 

The  maiden  Hero  went  to  the  temple  of  the  goddess.  Her  fair  face  was 
radiant  with  light,  such  light  as  gleams  on  the  white  cheeks  of  Selene  when 
she  rises.  Snowy  were  the  maiden's  cheeks  and  on  the  top  of  their  curve 
spread  the  pink.  So  a  rose  bursts  in  varying  color  from  its  calyx.  You 
would  quickly  say  that  a  meadow  of  roses  was  blooming  on  Hero's  body, 
for  the  flesh  of  her  body  was  rosy.  And  as  the  maiden  passed,  the  roses 
shone  beneath  her  white  tunic's  hem.  Many  were  the  charms  that  flowed 
from  her  person.  The  ancients  said  falsely  that  the  Graces  were  but  three, 
for  Hero's  eyes  when  they  smile  give  birth  to  a  hundred  graces.  Truly 
Cypris  found  her  priestess  worthy.  So  the  fairest  by  far  among  women, 
the  priestess  of  Cypris,  seemed  a  young  Cypris.  She  made  her  way  into  the 
tender  hearts  of  the  young  men,  nor  was  there  any  man  who  did  not  long  to 
hold  Hero  as  his  bride.  And  when  she  wandered  through  the  fair  temple 
she  kept  the  minds  of  men  following  her,  and  their  eyes  and  their  hearts. 
And  many  a  youth  marveled  and  uttered  this  word :  *  I  have  been  even  to 
Sparta,  have  seen  the  city  of  Lacedaemon  where  we  hear  of  a  contest  and 
a  prize  for  beautiful  maids,  but  not  before  have  I  seen  a  girl  so  young,  so 
dear,  so  exquisite.  Perhaps  the  Cyprian  has  here  one  of  the  young  Graces. 
In  seeing  her  I  suflfered  and  I  did  not  find  satisfaction  in  sight.  May  I 
mount  Hero's  marriage  couch  and  die!  I  would  not  desire  to  be  a  god  on 
Olympus  might  I  have  Hero  as  my  wedded  wife  in  my  home.  But  if  it  is 
not  fitting  for  me  to  touch  your  priestess,  Cythereia,  grant  me,  I  pray,  a 
young  bride  like  her.'  Such  words  many  a  youth  uttered,  and  hiding  their 
wounds  from  each  other,  they  went  mad  with  love  for  the  beauty  of  the  maid. 


452  MUSAEUS'S   'HERO  AND  LEANDER  ' 

And  you,  hapless  Leander,  when  you  saw  the  glorious  girl,  did  not  wish 
to  wear  out  your  heart  in  secret  tortures,  but  unexpectedly  conquered  by  the 
fiery  arrows,  you  did  not  wish  to  live  without  possessing  beauteous  Hero. 
The  more  he  looked  at  her,  the  higher  burned  the  flame  of  love  and  his 
heart  seethed  at  the  rush  of  the  irresistible  fire.  For  great  beauty  in  a  virtuous 
woman  brings  keener  pangs  to  men  than  a  winged  arrow.  The  eye  is  the 
path.  From  the  darts  of  the  eye  the  wound  spreads  and  makes  its  way  to 
the  heart  of  man.  First  there  came  upon  him  wonder,  then  boldness,  then 
a  trembling,  then  shyness.  His  heart  shuddered,  shame  seized  him  at  having 
been  conquered.  Then  he  marveled  at  her  great  beauty,  and  love  put 
shame  to  flight.  Courageously  at  love's  command  he  welcomed  boldness 
and  quietly  he  went  and  stood  near  the  maid.  He  cast  a  side  glance  at  her 
and  his  eyes  trembled  and  he  perplexed  the  heart  of  the  maid  with  his  signs 
that  found  no  voice.  But  the  girl  when  she  understood  the  half-concealed 
longing  of  Leander  rejoiced  in  his  beauty.  And  she  herself  quietly  hid  her 
lovely  face  many  a  time,  yet  gave  an  unwitting  message  to  Leander  by  her 
secret  signs.  Then  again  she  turned  back,  and  his  heart  was  glad  within 
him  because  the  maid  understood  his  longing  and  did  not  scorn  him.  Then 
while  Leander  was  seeking  a  secret  hour  of  meeting,  Dawn  brought  the  light 
and  went  away  and  from  the  west  appeared  Hesperus  the  star  of  evening. 
And  the  youth  approached  the  maiden  boldly  when  he  saw  the  dark  advanc- 
ing in  her  sable  robes.  And  gently  pressing  the  rosy  fingers  of  the  girl,  he 
heaved  a  deep  sigh  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  And  she  without  a  word , 
as  if  angered,  drew  away  her  rosy  hand.  And  when  he  saw  the  signs  of 
yielding  in  his  beloved  lady,  he  laid  a  bold  hand  on  her  embroidered  tunic 
and  drew  her  towards  the  secret  shrine  of  the  holy  temple.  With  reluctant 
feet  the  maiden  Hero  followed  as  one  not  wishing  and  she  made  this  speech, 
threatening  Leander  with  soft  words:  'Stranger,  why  are  you  so  wild? 
Why,  ill-starred  man,  are  you  dragging  along  me,  a  maid  ?  Go  on  another 
way.  Let  go  of  my  tunic.  Avoid  the  wrath  of  my  wealthy  parents.  It  is 
not  fitting  for  you  to  touch  a  priestess  of  the  Cyprian.  It  is  wrong  for  you 
to  go  to  the  bed  of  a  maid.'  Such  threats  she  uttered,  fitting  words  for 
maidens.  But  Leander  when  he  felt  the  sting  of  her  gentle  threat  recog- 
riized  the  signs  of  the  maiden  persuaded,  for  when  women  threaten  men, 
their  very  threats  are  preludes  to  Aphrodite's  rites.  So  he  kissed  the  girl's 
fair,  fragrant  neck,  and  smitten  by  the  dart  of  desire,  he  uttered  these  words: 
*  Dear  Lady  Cypris,  second  to  Cypris,  Athena  after  Athena,  I  do  not  call  you 
like  earth-born  women,  but  I  liken  you  to  the  daughters  of  Zeus,  Cronus's 
son.  Happy  was  the  man  who  begat  you,  and  happy  the  mother  who  bore 
you,  and  most  blessed  the  womb  that  held  you.     Hear  now  my  prayers  and 


ELIZABETH   HAZELTON  HAIGHT  453 

pity  the  needs  of  desire.  Since  you  are  the  priestess  of  Cypris,  perform  now 
the  work  of  Cypris.  Come  to  me;  solemnly  observe  the  goddess's  own 
marriage  laws.  It  is  not  seemly  that  a  maid  should  serve  Aphrodite. 
Cypris  does  not  rejoice  in  maids.  And  if  you  wish  to  learn  the  goddess's 
delightful  laws  and  certain  mysteries,  they  are  marriage  and  nuptial  couch. 
Do  you,  if  you  cherish  Cythereia,  welcome  the  joyous  bond  of  love  that 
warms  the  heart  and  receive  me,  your  suppliant,  your  husband,  if  you  wish, 
whom  Eros  came  after  and  hunted  down  with  darts  of  love  for  you.  For 
swift  Hermes  of  the  golden  wand  conducted  mighty  Heracles  to  the  service 
of  a  bride,  lardanus's  daughter.  And  Cypris  sent  me  to  you,  clever  Hermes 
did  not  lead  me.  And  you  know  the  story  of  the  maid  Atalanta  in  Arcadia 
who  once  scorned  marriage  with  Meilanion  who  loved  her,  cherishing  her 
maidenhood,  but  when  Aphrodite  became  angry,  the  girl  took  into  her  whole 
heart  the  man  whom  before  she  did  not  desire.  Be  persuaded,  then,  and  do 
not  awake  wrath  in  the  Cyprian.'  So  speaking,  he  persuaded  the  heart  of 
the  reluctant  maid,  binding  her  soul  with  his  love-awakening  words.  And 
the  maiden  in  silence  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  trying  to  hide  her  face  that 
was  blushing  from  shame.  She  smoothed  the  earth  with  her  foot  and  in 
shame  frequently  she  drew  her  tunic  together  over  her  shoulders.  Yet  all 
this  was  the  harbinger  of  yielding,  for  silence  is  the  promise  of  a  maiden's 
yielding  to  love.  Already  the  maid  Hero  felt  the  bitter-sweet  sting  of 
passion.  And  her  heart  was  kindled  with  the  sweet  fire,  and  she  shuddered 
at  the  beauty  of  charming  Leander.  And  meanwhile  Leander,  his  face 
alight  with  love,  did  not  weary  of  gazing  at  the  fair  neck  of  the  girl.  At  last 
she  made  sweet  speech  to  Leander,  while  a  dewy  flush  of  shame  spread  over 
her  face:  'Stranger,  by  your  words  you  would  quickly  stir  even  a  rock. 
Who  taught  you  the  ways  of  wandering  words  ^  Ah  me!  Who  brought  you 
to  my  native  land  ^  All  these  words  you  have  uttered  in  vain,  for  how  can 
you,  a  wandering  stranger,  and  faithless,  win  my  love  ^  We  cannot  unite 
openly  in  holy  wedlock,  for  it  would  not  please  my  parents.  And  if  you  wish, 
since  as  a  stranger  you  have  wandered  to  my  native  land,  to  remain  there, 
you  cannot  hide  our  love  and  make  it  secret.  For  the  tongue  of  men  is 
fond  of  scandal,  and  the  deed  done  in  silence  is  proclaimed  at  the  cross- 
roads. But  tell  me  your  name  and  your  country.  Do  not  hide  them.  For 
you  know  my  name;  it  is  famous  Hero.  And  an  echoing  tower  rising 
toward  the  sky  is  my  home.  There  I  dwell  with  one  maid-servant  before 
the  city  of  Sestus  above  the  shore  where  the  waves  roll,  having  the  sea  for 
my  neighbor  by  my  parent's  stern  decree.  I  have  no  companions  of  my  own 
age;  there  are  no  dances  of  youths  here;  but  always  through  the  night  and 
in  the  morning  the  sound  of  the  wind-swept  sea  roars  in  my  ears.'     With 


454  MUSAEUS'S  'HERO  AND  LEANDER  ' 

these  words  she  hid  her  rosy  face  in  her  robe,  overcome  by  modesty,  and  she 
blamed  her  own  words.  But  Leander,  smitten  by  the  sharp  dart  of  desire, 
was  thinking  how  he  might  win  the  prize  in  love's  contest.  For  Eros,  the 
wily,  conquers  a  man  by  his  weapons,  then  again  heals  the  man's  wound,  and 
he,  the  All-conqueror,  aids  the  mortals  whom  he  rules.  And  he  himself  then 
aided  the  amorous  Leander.  At  last  the  youth  in  passion  spoke  a  clever 
plan :  '  Maiden,  for  love  of  you  I  will  cross  the  wild  sea  even  if  it  seethes 
with  flames,  even  if  the  water  be  not  fit  for  ships.  I  do  not  dread  the  deep 
stream  since  I  fare  to  your  couch.  I  do  not  dread  the  roar  of  the  loud- 
sounding  sea  but  ever  in  the  night  borne  through  the  waters  I  your  husband 
will  swim  the  Hellespont's  strong  stream.  For  I  dwell  in  the  citadel  of 
Abydus  opposite  your  city,  not  far  away.  Only,  I  pray  you,  set  for  me  a 
single  lamp  in  your  lofty  tower  in  the  west  at  dark.  Then  seeing  it,  I'll  be 
the  barque  of  love,  your  lamp  my  star.  And  watching  it,  I  shall  not  see 
Bootes  setting,  nor  mighty  Orion,  nor  the  orbit  of  the  Wagon  that  brings  no 
rain.  And  may  I  put  in  at  the  sweet  haven  of  the  land  across.  But,  Dear, 
guard  against  unfriendly  breezes,  lest  they  put  out  the  light  and  at  once  I 
lose  my  soul,  the  lamp,  the  guide  that  lights  my  life.  And  if  my  name  you 
really  wish  to  know,  my  name's  Leander,  husband  of  Hero  crowned  with 
flowers.' 

So  the  two  covenanted  to  unite  in  secret  wedlock  and  pledged  to  guard 
their  friendship  of  the  night  and  the  news  of  their  marriage  which  only  the 
torch  should  witness,  and  the  girl  swore  to  set  the  light,  and  the  lad  swore 
to  cross  the  long  waves.  So  when  they  had  arranged  sleepless  Hymen's 
tryst,  reluctantly  they  parted  of  necessity.  Hero  went  to  her  tower  and 
Leander  after  he  had  noted  the  signs  of  the  tower  that  he  might  not  go 
astray,  sailed  in  the  dark  night  to  the  broad  deme  of  Abydus,  city  of  deep 
foundations.  And  in  their  longing  for  the  mysterious  rewards  of  nights 
spent  together,  many  a  time  they  wished  that  the  bridal  dark  would  come. 

Now  night's  darkness,  clad  in  sable  robes,  rushed  on,  bringing  sleep  to 
men,  but  not  to  longing  Leander.  But  on  the  shore  of  the  loud-sounding 
sea  he  awaited  the  gleaming  herald  of  his  marriage,  looking  for  the  sum- 
mons of  the  lamp —  ah !  much  lamented !  —  and  for  the  messenger  of  his 
secret  union  that  he  should  see  afar.  And  when  Hero  saw  the  dark  gloom 
of  black  night,  she  lighted  her  lamp.  And  when  its  light  appeared,  Eros  set 
the  soul  of  eager  Leander  aflame.  As  the  lamp  burned, he  burned  with  it, 
and  beside  the  sea,  hearing  the  echoing  roar  of  the  raging  waves,  he  trembled 
first,  then,  summoning  his  courage, he  cheered  his  heart  by  uttering  these 
words:  '  Dread  is  Eros,  cruel  the  sea.  But  there  is  water  in  the  sea  and  the 
fire  of  love  is  burning  within  me.     Fan  the  flame,  my  heart,  do  not  fear  the 


ELIZABETH   HAZELTON  HAIGHT  455 

flowing  stream.  Come,  my  heart,  on  to  love.  Why  heed  the  breakers  f 
Do  you  not  know  that  Cypris  is  the  child  of  the  sea  and  rules  both  the  ocean 
and  our  love  pangs .? '  Saying  these  words,  he  drew  with  both  hands  his 
peplos  off  from  his  fair  limbs  and  bound  it  on  his  head,  then  rushed  from  the 
shore  and  threw  his  body  into  the  sea,  and  always  he  hastened  towards  the 
lamp  burning  opposite  him.  His  own  oarsman  he  was,  his  own  ship,  self- 
sent,  self-moving.  And  Hero,  the  light-giver,  high  in  her  lofty  tower  many 
a  time  when  the  wind  blew  an  unfriendly  blast,  shielded  the  lamp  with  her 
robe  until  in  great  weariness  Leander  arrived  at  Sestus's  shore,  his  ship's 
haven.  Then  she  led  him  to  her  tower.  And  at  the  door  without  a  word 
she  threw  her  arms  around  her  gasping  husband,  still  dripping  with  the  sea's 
salt  spray,  then  led  him  to  the  heart  of  her  maiden  room,  now  her  bridal 
chamber.  And  she  washed  all  his  flesh  and  anointed  his  body  with  oil, 
fragrant  with  the  odor  of  roses,  and  quenched  the  smell  of  the  sea  upon  him. 
And  then,  while  he  was  still  breathing  hard,  on  her  soft  bed  she  put  her  arms 
around  her  lord  and  spoke  to  him  tender  words:  *  My  husband,  you  have 
suffered  indeed  many  things  which  no  other  bridegroom  has  suffered.  My 
husband,  you  have  suffered  many  things.  Enough  now  of  the  salt  waves 
and  the  fishy  smell  of  the  loud-roaring  sea.  Come,  put  away  your  weariness 
in  my  bosom.'  When  she  said  these  words,  at  once  he  unbound  her  girdle 
and  they  entered  into  the  mysteries  of  kindly  Cythereia.  That  was  their 
marriage,  but  they  had  no  wedding  dance;  that  was  their  nuptial  bed, 
but  they  had  no  wedding  song.  No  singer  raised  a  hymn  to  Hera,  the 
marriage  goddess.  No  gleam  of  torches  lighted  their  bridal  chamber,  no^ 
chorus  attended  them  with  dance,  no  father  or  honored  mother  joined  in 
wedding  song.  But  silence  spread  their  couch  in  hours  of  fulfilment, 
silence  closed  the  bridal  door  and  darkness  decked  the  bride.  Their 
marriage  was  without  the  wedding  songs.  Night  was  their  bridesmaid  — 
and  Dawn  never  saw  the  bridegroom  Leander  on  that  famous  bed.  For 
he  swam  back  to  the  land  of  Abydus  opposite,  still  eager,  still  breathing 
forth  the  sweetness  of  that  night.  And  Hero  of  the  flowing  robes  kept  her 
story  from  her  parents.  By  day  she  was  a  maid,  by  night  a  bride.  And 
many  a  time  both  lovers  longed  to  have  day  end. 

So  the  two,  concealing  their  need  of  loving,  secretly  took  delight  in 
Cythereia's  sway.  But  only  a  little  while  they  lived;  not  for  long  did  they 
have  the  joy  of  their  uncertain  union.  For  when  the  time  of  frosty  winter 
came,  driving  before  her  chill,  whirling  blasts,  and  the  wintry  winds  blowing 
were  always  stirring  the  restless  depths  and  watery  ways  of  ocean,  smiting 
the  whole  sea  with  a  whirlwind,  the  sailor  now  drew  up  his  black  ship  on  the 
two  shores  of  the  beating  sea,  avoiding  the  wintry,  treacherous  waters.    But 


456  MUSAEUS'S  '  HERO  AND   LEANDER  ' 

no  fear  of  wintry  sea  checked  you,  stout-hearted  Leander,  For  your  guide 
in  the  tower,  showing  you  the  wonted  light  of  Hymen,  urged  you  on,  recking 
nought  of  the  raging  sea.  Cruel  and  faithless  it  was.  Hapless  Hero  ought 
to  have  waited  when  winter  began  and  not  to  have  lighted  the  short-lived 
star  of  love.  But  longing  and  fate  forced  her  on.  And  in  her  madness  she 
set  up  the  beacon  of  fate,  no  longer  Love's  light. 

It  was  night  when  most  of  all  times  the  high  winds,  the  winds  that  smite 
with  wintry  blasts,  together  fall  upon  the  seashore.  Yet  even  then  Leander 
in  the  hope  of  his  dear  bride  was  borne  along  over  the  roaring  waves  of  ocean. 
Now  wave  rolled  high  on  wave;  the  water  was  seething;  ocean  mingled  with 
sky;  on  all  sides  the  raging  winds  were  howling.  Eurus  blew  against 
Zephyrus,  Notus  hurled  great  threats  against  Boreas,  and  ceaseless  was  the 
roar  of  the  thundering  sea.  And  suffering  Leander,  in  the  relentless  eddies, 
many  a  time  made  supplication  to  Aphrodite  of  the  sea,  and  many  a  time  to 
Poseidon,  the  very  king  of  the  sea,  and  he  reminded  Boreas  of  his  Attic 
bride.  But  no  one  helped  him  and  Eros  did  not  ward  off  the  fates.  And 
beaten  on  every  side  by  the  fierce  onset  of  the  raging  water,  he  was  borne 
along  and  the  power  of  his  feet  was  spent  and  the  strength  of  his  untiring 
hands  was  gone.  Then  of  its  own  accord  a  great  stream  of  water  poured 
down  his  throat  and  he  drank  a  useless  draught  from  the  irresistible  salt  sea. 
And  at  last  a  bitter  wind  extinguished  the  faithless  lamp  and  the  soul  and 
the  love  of  much-enduring  Leander.  And  Hero,  while  he  delayed,  stood 
with  sleepless  eyes  and  a  wave  of  terrible  anxiety  rolled  over  her  heart. 
Dawn  came,  but  Hero  did  not  see  her  husband.  In  all  directions  over  the 
broad  back  of  ocean  she  turned  her  eyes  to  see  if  she  might  behold  her  lover 
wandering  since  the  light  had  gone  out.  And  when  near  the  foundation  of 
the  tower  she  saw  her  husband,  a  dead  body  dashed  on  the  rocks,  she  rent 
her  broidered  tunic  over  her  bosom  and  with  rushing  sound  fell  headlong 
from  the  lofty  tower.  So  Hero  perished  upon  the  body  of  her  dead  love, 
and  even  in  utter  destruction  they  had  joy  in  each  other. 


THE  MINNESINGERS 

By  Sidney  March 

SELDOM  in  the  history  of  literature  has  it  happened  that  warriors 
and  poets  have  come  from  the  same  class,  that  the  strong  arm 
that  swings  the  sword  has  been  able  to  guide  the  pen  through 
the  intricacies  of  verse  forms. 
War  and  its  dappled  trappings,  crimson  with  glory  and  blood, 
with  its  clanking  preparations,  brave  display,  and  its  noble 
deeds,  has  been  the  inspiration  of  many  a  poet  from  the  time  of  Homer 
down,  and  warriors  too  have  found  their  inspirations  in  a  singer's  song  of 
stirring  actions,  in  the  softening  of  their  hearts  by  a  poet's  lay.  Chieftains 
kept  their  bards  and  scalds  about  them  to  recall  the  memory  of  the  doings 
of  their  famous  ancestors,  and  there  has  rarely  been  a  time  when  there  was 
not  a  place  beside  the  throne  or  castle  dais  for  the  harp  or  lute. 

But  it  was  ever  the  warrior  who  slew  the  guilty,  upheld  the  innocent, 
kept  a  pass  against  overwhelming  odds,  loved  and  bore  away  on  his  swift 
steed  the  fair  princess  —  and  it  was  ever  the  poet,  gentle,  with  eyes  like  the 
sky  over  all,  and  heart  like  the  ocean  touching  every  shore,  who  made  songs 
of  other  men's  actions. 

But  in  the  early  Middle  Ages  when  life  was  so  full,  human  feelings  so 
eager,  so  fresh,  there  was  no  such  a  division.  The  warrior,  the  knight, 
who  did  the  deeds,  sang  of  them  himself,  and  the  Troubadour  and  Minne- 
singer wrote  songs  and  epics  as  they  rode,  armour  clanking,  to  joust  or 
warfare  along  the  flowered  roads  in  springtime.  It  was  a  time  of  great  love 
of  life;  the  world  was  small  and  fair;  spring  after  the  long  northern  winter 
was  in  truth  a  very  miracle  of  resurrection,  and  the  early  blossoms  and  re- 
turning birds  were  greeted  with  as  much  joyousness  and  "Childlike  freshness 
as  if  their  coming  were  not  of  yearly  recurrence.  With  the  spring,  life  was 
spent  out  of  doors,  booths  were  erected  in  the  meadows  and  forests,  and  the 
inhabitants  of  the  damp,  musty  gray  castles,  knights  and  ladies,  exchanged 
their  narrow  rooms  for  the  greensward,  eating,  dancing,  and  often  sleeping 
under  the  roof  of  the  sky.  There  was  little  of  Puritan  restraint  upon  their 
lives,  and  singing  songs  seemed  as  natural  to  such  lovers  of  the  world  about 
them  as  to  the  birds  themselves. 

Once  again  in  a  later  generation  in  England  was  found  this  same  com- 
bination of  warrior  and  poet  in  some  of  the  Elizabethans, — Raleigh  and  Sir 
Philip  Sidney. 

457 


458  THE   MINNESINGERS 

While  there  is  a  certain  resemblance  between  the  songs  of  the  French 
Troubadours  and  those  of  the  German  Minnesingers  in  style  and  subject, 
dealing  principally,  as  both  do,  with  love,  there  is  also  a  great  difference  in 
method,  and  love  in  the  songs  of  the  Minnesingers  becomes  purer,  less 
passionate  than  in  the  songs  of  their  southern  neighbors.  The  very  word 
'  minne  '  means  '  thought  of  love,'  something  more  spiritual  than  '  amour.' 
Their  first  songs  come  from  Austria  and  Bavaria,  and  in  spite  of  the  easily 
recognized  French  influence  on  this  literature,  it  remains  to  the  end  thor- 
oughly national  in  its  characteristics. 

The  emotional  life  of  a  knight  of  the  twelfth,  thirteenth,  and  fourteenth 
centuries  ranged  from  heaven  to  hell,  from  the  pope  to  the  emperor,  from 
war  to  his  lady.  All  these  emotions  may  be  found  embedded  in  the  verses 
of  the  Minnesingers,  but  the  most  prominent  position  is  given  to  '  minne  * 
itself,  and  though  the  range  in  subject  be  narrow,  it  is  exceedingly  extended 
in  form.  It  became  the  fashion  for  each  poet  to  find  a  new  form  for  his 
thoughts  as  well  as  a  new  melody  for  his  words,  as  the  Minnesinger,  unlike 
the  troubadour,  played  his  own  accompaniments,  and  it  is  in  this  diversity 
of  forms  that  lies  one  of  the  chief  charms  of  these  old  lyrics. 

The  form  is  a  modification  of  the  Nibelungenlied  strophe,  and  in  the 
earlier  writers  are  to  be  found  many  inaccuracies  in  both  meter  and  rhyme. 

There  are  several  collections  of  these  songs,  the  most  important  of 
which  is  the  one  known  as  the  Manessische  Manuscript,  made  in  Ziirich, 
in  1304,  by  Rudiger  Manesse  and  his  son  Johann.  It  is  beautifully  illustrated 
with  portraits  of  the  Minnesingers  riding,  fighting  in  tourneys,  singing  on 
the  greensward  to  their  ladies.  Among  these  drawings  is  an  interesting  one 
of  Herr  Heinrich  von  Veldecke,  represented  as  a  medieval  Orpheus,  seated 
on  a  flowery  bank,  surrounded  by  small  birds  on  the  tree  branches,  a  stork 
behind  him  and  a  black  squirrel  perched  upon  his  shoulder.  Dying  before 
the  death  of  chivalry  which  begot  them,  these  songs  lay  long  forgotten  until 
the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  when  some  of  them  were  published 
in  Switzerland,  and  in  1803  the  German  poet,  LudwigTieck,  brought  out  a 
number  of  them  for  the  admiration  of  a  new  generation. 

There  are  so  many  beautiful  lyrics  in  these  collections,  unknown  to  the 
majority  of  the  English-reading  public,  that  I  have  thought  that  the  selection 
of  a  few  of  them  would  prove  of  interest.  The  translations  I  have  made  are 
from  the  German  of  Bruno  Obermann,  who  has  arranged  the  poems  in 
modern  spelling.  I  have  been  perfectly  faithful  to  the  forms  of  the  originals, 
and  trust  that  in  so  doing  I  have  not  sacrificed  the  spirit. 

First  in  order  come  the  songs  in  praise  of  women  and  of  love.  The 
following  by  Reinmar  von  Hagenau  is  very  sincere  and  earnest. 


SIDNEY  MARCH  459 


PRAISE  OF  WOMAN 

Hail  to  thee,  woman,  that  pure  name! 

How  soft  it  is  to  hear,  how  very  sweet  to  say. 

Nothing  is  there  of  such  a  fame 

As  thine,  if  to  thy  graciousness  thou  giv'st  full  sway. 

I  mean  unto  thy  praise  an  end  there  cannot  be. 

And  he  to  whom  thou  troth  dost  plight,  a  blessed  man  is  he, 

And  sweet  to  him  is  living. 

Happiness  thou  giv'st  to  all  the  world. 

Wilt  thou  not  to  me  z  share  be  giving  ? 

The  author  of  this  verse  accompanied  Leopold  VI,  Duke  of  Austria 
and  Steiermark,to  the  Crusade  in  1189,  and  bewailed  his  death  in  a  lyric. 
Living  much  at  the  Austrian  court,  many  of  his  songs  were  artificial,  but 
Walther  von  der  Vogelweide  praises  *  his  melodious  mouth  and  sweet  song.* 

Tristan  was  a  favorite  subject  with  the  poets  of  that  age,  and  another 
Reinmar,  Reinmar  von  Zweter,  a  follower  of  Walther's,  wrote  the  following: 

A    NEW   TRISTAN 

Tristan  once  suffered  grievously, 

And  through  a  woman's  love  it  was  he  died  so  piteously 

And  also  through  his  constancy,  such  love  he  drank  out  of  a  glass. 

I  also  drank  of  this  same  wine 

From  my  dear  mistress'  eyes,  therefore  such  sorrow  now  is  mine 

Nor  can  May's  glories,  nor  the  songs  of  little  birds  e'er  bid  it  pass. 

For  she  hath  wounded  mind  and  heart  so  sadly. 

With  the  deep  spear  point  of  her  love  so  badly 

That  with  some  hope  she  quickly  we  must  beat  now; 

Or  else  then  soon  I  shall  be  dead. 

Unless  her  little  sweet  mouth  red 

Upon  my  lips  so  sick  with  love  I  feel  now. 

The  Watchman's  Song  was  a  favorite  form.  When  reading  the  following 
by  the  Markgraf  von  Hohenburg  we  feel  ourselves  standing  on  the  turrets 
of  a  high  tower  looking  eastward,  and  we  see  the  grim  watchman  anxious 
for  the  honor  and  life  of  the  knight,  and  the  fair  lady  with  unbound  tresses 
pleading  with  him. 


46o  THE   MINNESINGERS 

watchman's  song 

Watchman 

A  knight's  life  here  I  guard  with  care, 

Also  thine  honor,  woman  fair, 

Wake  him,  lady! 

In  joy  and  glory  God  him  keep, 

Let  him  awake  and  others  sleep. 

Wake  him,  lady! 

High  time  is't  now, 

Be  ready  thou; 

I  pray  thee  now  for  his  sweet  sake  alone. 

Dost  love  him  so. 

Then  let  him  go. 

For  if  he  sleeps  too  long  the  fault's  thine  own 

Wake  him,  lady! 

Lady 

Oh !  mayst  thou  unhappy  be, 

Thou  watchman,  who  sing'st  cruelly. 

Sleep,  beloved! 

Wert  thou  awake  I  should  be  glad, 

But  waking  thee  makes  me  too  sad, 

Sleep,  beloved! 

Oh!  watchman  see. 

Good  will  to  thee 

I've  ever  borne,  which  thou  dost  not  return; 

Thou  long'st  for  day 

To  drive  away 

The  joys  of  love  that  in  my  heart  now  burn. 

Sleep,  beloved! 

Watchman 

To  bear  thy  wrath  is  my  duty; 
Let  not  the  knight  the  day  here  see. 
Wake  him,  lady! 
He  gave  himself  into  my  care. 


SIDNEY  MARCH  461 

Gave  him  to  thy  favor,  fair! 

Wake  him,  lady! 

Oh!  lady  choose. 

If  he  must  lose 

His  life,  then  they  with  his  our  lives  will  take. 

I  sing,  I  say, 

Now  is  it  day. 

So  wake  him  now,  or  my  horn  must  him  wake. 

Wake  him,  lady! 

The  following  song  brings  us  to  the  greatest  of  all  the  Minnesingers, 
Walther  von  der  Vogelweide,  whose  very  name  makes  us  think  of  green 
fields  and  singing  birds.  He  was  born  in  the  Tyrol  and  there,  in  its  moun- 
tain freshness,  learned  his  singing.  He  went  to  court  at  Vienna  and  in  his 
wanderings  was  welcomed  by  many  a  prince,  among  them  by  Frederick  II, 
himself  a  poet  in  his  Sicilian  kingdom.  He  took  part  in  the  political 
struggles  of  his  time,  siding  with  the  emperor  against  the  pope.  He  was  the 
sweetest  of  all  the  singers  and  gentle  at  the  thought  of  women. 

love's  dream 

I 

Take,  maid,  this  wreath  from  me  — 

So  spake  I  once  to  a  maiden  sweet  and  fair. 

Star  of  the  dance  you'll  be. 

If  these  flowers  sweet  thereto  ye  will  but  wear. 

If  I  rare  jewels  had,  believe  me. 

In  your  hair  I'd  place  them, 

And  joy  to  see  you  grace  them; 

Truth  is't  I  tell,  I'd  not  deceive  ye. 

II 

So  pleasing,  maid,  are  ye 

That  gladly  on  ye  would  I  this  wreath  bestow 

As  fair  as  it  may  be. 

But  so  many  bright-hued  flowers  still  I  know 

Which  blossom  in  that  meadow  yonder: 

From  the  ground  they're  springing 


462  THE   MINNESINGERS 

And  the  birds  are  singing, 

Thither  to  pick  them  we  will  wander. 

Ill 

She  took  the  wreath  from  me 

As  a  modest  maiden  overcome  with  shame; 

Her  cheek  was  red,  to  see. 

As  the  rose  that  'neath  white  lilies  is  aflame. 

And  downward  then  her  bright  eyes  turning, 

Gracious  bow  she  made  me. 

Kindly  to  repay  me; 

If  more  —  from  me  ye'll  not  be  learning. 

IV 

Methought  that  ne'er  again 

Joy  so  great  as  mine  could  anywhere  I  find. 

There  fell  the  flowers'  rain 

From  the  trees  on  us  who  in  the  grass  reclined. 

Ah!  see  with  joy  my  heart  was  leaping, 

Joyous  was  my  dreaming, 

Blissful  life  was  seeming, — 

Came  day  —  and  I  awoke  from  sleeping! 


Therefore  constrained  am  I, 

\\Tien  fair  maids  I  in  summertime  do  see, 

Into  their  eyes  to  spy. 

If  I  found  her  my  pain  might  ended  be. 

Oh !  were  she  'mongst  these  maids  here  dancing  ? 

Ladies  now  aside  lay 

Hats  that  your  faces  hide  may, — 

See  I  my  wreath-bound  maid  advancing  ? 

There  was  at  that  time  in  Germany  a  strong  feeling  against  the  corrup- 
tions and  simony  of  the  Church  at  Rome,  and  there  were  many  tirades 
written  against  the  pope  and  the  clergy.  One  of  these  Catholic  precursors 
of  the  Reformation  was  Dr.  Warner.     He  was  not  a  knight,  as  were  most  of 


SIDNEY  MARCH  463 

the  Minnesingers,  and  wrote  chiefly  poHtical  and  religious  verses,  fables,  and 
riddles.  His  end  was  a  tragic  one:  he  was  murdered  when  blind  and  old, 
with  but  few  years  to  live. 

Against  the  Pope 

Now  may  God  help  me  that  my  children  never  old  do  grow. 
For  now  already  the  whole  world  such  piteous  mien  doth  show. 
For  more  than  thirty  years  of  dole 
Do  we  not  see  priests  fighting  without  ceasing  .? 
So  tell  me  now,  thou  Pope  of  Rome,  thy  staff  how  dost  thou  use, 
That  God  unto  St.  Peter  gave  that  he  our  sins  might  loose  ? 
He  gave  them  infula  and  stole. 
That  us  from  sins  they  might  be  aye  releasing. 
Into  swords  now  the  stoles  have  turned; 
They  do  not  fight  for  souls,  for  gold  they're  lusting. 
Where  was  it  bishops  ye  this  learned 

To  ride  armour-clad,  when  to  the  infula  ye  should  be  trusting  .? 
Your  pastoral  staff  hath  lengthened  into  a  long,  sharp  spear. 
And  ye  have  conquered  all  the  world;  but  from 
Ye  naught  is  heard  but  aye :     '  Give  here  ' ! 

This  prayer  of  Spervogel  is  an  indication  of  the  fervor  and  purity  of  the 
religious  belief  of  the  Minnesingers. 

To  The  Infinite 

All  the  green  things  the  woods  hold, 

All  the  metals,  even  gold. 

And  each  depth  in  land  or  sea. 

All,  oh!  Lord,  is  known  to  thee. 

In  thy  hand's  hollow  dwell  they. 

But,  oh!  Lord  of  heaven,  there's  naught 

That  perfectly  of  all  thy  glory  tell  may. 

By  Spervogel  is  also  the  following  homely  philosophy: 

Vain  Wishes 

What  boots  it,  then,  the  steed  that  we  stand  near  his  way  I 
What  profit  hath  the  wolf,  though  round  the  flock  he  stray  .? 


464  THE   MINNESINGERS 

If  they  may  them  no  nearer  go. 

And  Hke  to  them  fares  even  so 

The  man  who  hath  no  gold,  though  everything  for  sale  we  find  can^ 

A  light  within  another's  hand  doth  profit  naught  a  blind  man. 

Friedrich  von  Hausen,  like  so  many  others  of  the  Minnesingers,  was  a 
Crusader,  and  met  his  death  as  he  was  in  hot  pursuit  of  a  band  of  Turks. 
The  longing  for  his  lady  many  miles  away  in  her  northern  home,  to  whom 
he  sent  many  a  rhymed  message,  must  have  made  him  at  times  regret  that  he 
had  taken  the  Cross,  and  caused  him  to  write  the  following: 

Who  takes  the  Cross  and  then  faint  grows 
Shall  see,  when  Paradise  outside 
He  stands,  the  gates  of  heaven  close 
That  to  his  lambs  God  opens  wide. 

*  The  Life  of  Man,'  by  Der  Kauzler,  and  '  Preparations  for  Eternity,* 
by  Ulrich  von  Singenberg,  show  that  the  singers  were  not  always  light- 
hearted. 

The  Life  of  Man 

So  fair,  so  strong,  so  prudent 

Was  woman  ne'er  or  man 

But  the  future  oppressed  e'er 

And  fear  of  coming  death. 

But  to  the  worms  for  food  lent 

His  body.     Pain  began 

His  life,  and  troubles  rest  ne'er; 

Sorrow  and  need  his  breath. 

And  his  first  sound  is  weeping. 

His  last  too  when  comes  night, 

No  time  hath  he  for  reaping, 

I  wot,  of  sweet  delight. 

In  need  and  fear  and  sorrow 

Doth  man  his  end  abide 

How  quit  this  world  some  morrow, 

How  fare  the  other  side  ? 

Preparations  for  Eternity 

Ah!  well  for  him  who  doth  reflect 
On  what  he  was,  is,  and  shall  be. 


SIDNEY   MARCH  465 

He  who  this  counsel  doth  reject 

Into  a  false  glass  gazeth  he, 

And  will  not  ready  make  his  soul  for  heaven, 

Since  to  no  one  can  it  be  known  how  long  a  term  isgiven. 

Now  first  of  all  this  rede's  for  me, 

But  if  I  should  this  truth  forget,  full  well  I  know 

That  other  folks  more  wise  will  be. 

Spring  is  the  season  most  associated  with  the  Minnesingers;  they  made 
comparisons  between  her  charms  and  those  of  fair  women,  described  it  as 
a  background  for  women's  beauty,  or  delighted  in  her  for  her  own  loveliness 
and  contrast  between  her  and  winter.  'May's  Jollity,'  by  Neidhardt  von 
Reuenthal,  is  full  of  spring's  impetuosity. 

May's  Jollity 

In  the  valley,  on  the  hill 
Hear  again  the  birds  now  trill, 
See  again  grassy  lane; 
Go,  old  winter,  how  you  pain! 

Trees  that  late  were  old  and  bare 

Now  their  spring's  new  garments  wear; 

Where  birds  gay 

Sing  and  sway 

All  the  May  their  debt  now  pay. 

And  a  dame  who  on  her  couch  there  lay 
Fighting  Death  both  night  and  day 
Jumped  from  her  bed. 
Like  a  goat  round  sped. 
Beat  the  lads  till  off  they  fled. 

The  cynic  strain  always  to  be  found  in  love  poetry  is  exemplified  in 
these  verses  of  Bernger  von  Horheim. 

Lying 

I 

Oh!  it's  ever  I'm  dreaming  I  fly  through  the  air 
Over  the  world  that  belongeth  to  me. 


466  THE   MINNESINGERS 

1  think  of  a  place,  and  my  spirit  is  there, 
I  long  for  strange  treasures,  and  here  they  will 
For  strong  is  and  fleet  and  so  mighty  be  and  free 
My  spirit  that  quickly  from  here  I  am  speeding, 
No  beast  of  the  forest  can  follow  my  leading  — 
But  no,  I  am  lying  —  I'm  leaden,  you  see! 

II 

Crazy  with  delight  now  soon  shall  I  be, 
Hath  not  Love  shown  me  such  favor  to-day  : 
Were  there  but  near  here  or  far  I  might  see 
A  wood  full  of  trees  in  a  noble  array. 
Then  joyous  they'd  mark  me  in  dances  round  sway. 
In  truth  midst  such  pleasures  I  must  restrain  me. 
Oh!  fool,  how  I  prattle;  I'm  lying  again,  see 
Ne'er  was  I  sadder,  that  now  must  I  say. 

HI 

Spies  and  duennas  I've  troubled  in  mind, 
Have  I  not  earned  their  envy  and  hate  ? 
Is  not  my  mistress  both  wealthy  and  kind  } 
How  happy  am  I  who  in  trouble  once  sate. 
That  pain  in  my  heart  that  oppressed  me  of  late 
Away  now  is  vanished,  forever  hath  ceased, 
And  joy  from  all  sorrow  me  hath  released, 
Ne'er  was  I  better!     But  lies 'tis  I  prate! 

IV 

And  now  I  succeed  where  I  failed  in  the  past 
j    '  In  the  love  of  my  fair  one;  this  to  ye  I  tell. 

;  So  now  are  the  spies  and  duennas  downcast. 

Since  no  more  they  near  me  at  my  fate  rebel, 
At  the  heart's  trouble  that  she  doth  expell. 
And  now  that  again  I  to  pleasures  am  wending 
God  shall  reward  her  that  my  tears  are  ending. 
But  no,  I  am  lying  —  still  long  must  they  last! 


SIDNEY  MARCH  467 

That  the  ladies  were  not  unmoved  by  all  the  songs  sung  in  their  honor 
is  proved  by  their  treatment  of  Frauenlob,  a  Minnesinger,  so  called  on 
account  of  his  constant  praise  of  women.  At  his  death,  in  order  to  show 
their  appreciation  of  his  homage  to  them,  the  women  decorated  his  coffin 
with  wreathes  of  flowers  and  bore  it  themselves  to  the  grave. 

Many  of  the  Minnesingers  were  not  only  lyric,  but  epic  poets  as  well. 
Hartman  von  der  Aue  wrote  the  epic  '  I  wein,'  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach, 
'  Parzival '  and  fragments  of  *  Titurel,'  and  Gottfried  von  Strassburg, 
'  Tristan  and  Isolde.' 

At  last,  as  chivalry  declined,  this  literature,  fresh  and  youthful,  grew 
degenerate,  fell  from  its  poetic  height,  became  bourgeoise,  mocking,  coarse, 
till  one  day  all  knightly  robes  dropped  away  from  it  and  its  deadj,bones  only 
were  left  for  the  master  singers,  shoemakers,  small  craftsmen,  men  of  narrow, 
sordid  views,  hemmed  in  by  the  walls  of  their  native  cities,  to  cover  with 
their  woolen  caps  and  leathern  aprons,  to  discuss  and  dissect,  unconscious 
that  the  spirit  of  poesy  was  dead. 


A  NEW  HAMLET  QUERY 

By  James  M.  Street 

IS  the  celebrated  speech  of  '  To  be,  or  not  to  be,'  a  soliloquy  ?  While 
the  speech  as  a  soliloquy  may  be  to  us  what  it  was  to  Charles  Lamb, 
'  a  dead  member,'  yet  if  it  is  not  a  soliloquy,  there  can  be  but  one 
explanation  of  it. 
In  the  interesting  analysis  that  he  makes  of  the  speech  in 
controversy,  Karl  Werder  adopts  the  view  that  the  speech  is  a 
soliloquy  without  considering  the  place  of  the  king  in  the  poet's  mind 
while  the  speech  is  being  delivered.  In  his  theory,  the  effect  of  the  ghost 
on  Hamlet  excludes  all  consideration  of  the  significance  of  the  speech  as 
set  in  the  presence  of  Hamlet's  deadly  enemy.  He  says,  *  What  Hamlet 
has  most  at  heart  after  he  sees  the  ghost,  is  not  the  death,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, the  life  of  the  king,  henceforth  as  precious  to  him  as  his  own.'  And 
yet,  his  consideration  of  it  as  expressing  the  effect  of  the  ghost  upon 
Hamlet,  the  objective  idea,  loses  sight  of  the  effect  of  the  speech  upon  the 
king,  the  subjective  idea.  Is  this  speech  the  expression  of  the  ghost  in 
Hamlet  ?  or  is  it  the  expression  of  Hamlet  in  the  king  ?  To  go  further,  is 
there  not  a  blending  of  the  subjective  with  the  objective  in  Hamlet,  the 
value  of  the  latter  enhanced  by  the  presence  of  the  former  ?  The  creator 
of  this  scene  certainly  could  have  given  us  a  scene  with  Hamlet  unheard 
and  unseen,  without  affording  the  king  an  elegant  opportunity  for  the  study 
of  the  prince  off  his  guard,  if  it  was  intended  that  the  speech  should  be  a 
soliloquy. 

But  let  us  consider  the  dramatic  purpose  of  the  scene.  Hamlet  has 
been  requested  to  appear  at  the  place  where  he  delivers  the  speech.  '  We 
have  closely  sent  for  Hamlet  hither.'  '  Closely  '  is  interpreted  to  mean 
privately  or  secretly.  What  is  wanted  of  Hamlet  ?  To  meet  Ophelia  as 
if  by  accident.  Why  ?  Polonius  insists  Hamlet's  '  confusion  '  is  due  to 
rejected  love.  He  desires  to  demonstrate  the  fact  to  the  king.  So  they 
arrange  for  Hamlet's  presence  and  concealing  themselves,  *  seeing  unseen,' 
observe  how  he  conducts  himself  with  Ophelia. 

Now  observe  the  condition  of  each  mind  in  this  scene  in  order  to  catch 
the  mental  bent  and  meaning  of  what  is  said  and  done.  What  was  the 
knowledge  and  thought  of  each  as  to  the  others  ^ 

The  king  was  in  a  troubled  state  of  mind.     Hamlet's  '  transformation  * 

468 


JAMES   M.   STREET  469 

worries  him.  The  king  has  a  guilty  secret.  He  fears  Hamlet  knows  more 
than  he  pretends  to  know.  In  the  interval  between  the  first  and  second 
acts,  the  king  has  sent  to  Wittenberg  inviting  to  Elsinore  companions  of 
Hamlet  who  were  of  '  young  days  brought  up  with  him  '  and  had  become 
*  neighbor'd  to  his  youth  and  humor.'  The  king  expected  them  to  surprise 
Hamlet's  knowledge  from  him  or  the  cause  of  his  aloofness.  The  king 
keeps  these  young  men  innocent.  He  so  handles  them  that  these  boon 
companions  of  Hamlet's  school  days  not  only  do  not  suspect  anything 
wrong,  but  they  are  fatally  flattered  by  their  service  to  a  king.  They  be- 
come very  much  swelled  with  their  new  position  in  life.  The  king  makes 
them  believe  that  he  has  a  kindly  interest  in  Hamlet  and  he  is  very  anxious 
to  know  if  anything  to  him 

*  unknown,  afflicts  him  thus. 
That,  open'd,  lies  within  our  remedy.' 

They  are  supposed  to  get  their  information  secretly.  They  are  to  draw 
Hamlet  on  to  pleasures  and  to  gather  as  much  from  occasion  as  they  could 
without  exciting  Hamlet's  suspicions. 

Hamlet  pretends  to  be  in  a  troubled  state  of  mind.  He  fools  Polonius, 
Ophelia,  Rosencrantz,  and  Guildenstern  completely,  but  the  king  is  wary 
and  wily.  He  dreads  Hamlet's  prowess.  He  dreads  Hamlet's  quick 
perceptive  powers,  his  ability  to  keep  his  knowledge,  thoughts,  and  plans  to 
himself,  his  possible  suspicions  of  the  king.  And,  worst  of  all,  Hamlet  is 
the  son  of  the  murdered. 

But  Hamlet's  mind  is  steady.  It  is  also  intensely  secret,  as  secret 
and  subtle  as  nature's  self.  Even  Horatio  doesn't  get  as  much  confidence 
as  he  himself  thinks  he  does.  We  mention  this  because  it  is  important  in 
studying  the  temperament  of  Hamlet.  He  tests  everybody  and  everything, 
even  his  own  views  in  Horatio's  mind,  the  reflex  leaving  the  impression  with 
the  student  that  the  views  remain  on  the  surface;  there  is  a  deeper  and 
diflferent  meaning  beneath.  Horatio  was  his  friend  and  he  was  Horatio's, 
but  he  had  more  mind  and  judgment,  and,  naturally,  a  keener  sense  of  his 
own  responsibilities  than  Horatio  did. 

^  Hamlet  tells  his  fellow-students  nothing.  He  learns  everything.  He 
surprises  from  them  their  agency  to  the  king  and  then  chloroforms  the 
surprise.  He  does  tell  them  something.  He  tells  them  he  has  lost  his 
mirth  and  foregone  all  custom  of  exercises.  And  yet  in  the  very  breath  he 
tells  them  this,  he  is  having  delicious  fun  with  them,  making  them  think 
they  are  performing  a  great  service  to  *  the  good  king  and  queen.'     He 


470  A  NEW  HAMLET  QUERY 

doesn't  tell  them  that  he  is  exercising  every  day  with  the  sword,  that  he 
has  been  *  in  continual  practice  '  fencing,  since  Laertes  '  went  into  France.' 
He  also  tells  them  he  is  *  most  dreadfully  attended.'  This  is  the  day  before 
the  scene  with  Ophelia.  The  king,  perhaps,  suspects  that  Hamlet  knows 
that  he  is  being  watched  by  Polonius  and  the  king,  but  the  king  never  learns 
that  Hamlet  has  captured  the  real  reason  why  Rosencrantz  and  Guilden- 
stern  are  at  Elsinore.  So  Hamlet  appears  in  the  presence  of  Ophelia, 
knowing  the  disposition  of  the  king  to  use  spys  on  his  secret  conduct. 
Would  not  Hamlet  be  inclined  to  be  more  on  the  alert  this  day,  after 
having  had  the  experience  of  the  day  before  ? 

But  there  are  other  conditions  which  would  indicate  that  he  would  be 
more  on  the  alert  this  day  than  he  was  the  previous  day,  vigilant,  quick, 
and  illusive  as  he  was  on  the  latter  occasion.  One  reason  is  his  interest  in 
and  the  necessities  of  the  success  of  the  experiment  with  the  king  in  the 
court  play  to  be  given  that  evening.  The  other  is,  the  logical  thought  of 
a  trap  that  would  naturally  be  suggested  in  Hamlet's  mind  by  the  presence 
of  Ophelia. 

Let  us  take  up  the  latter  first.  Ophelia  is  introduced  to  us  in  the  play 
being  warned  against  Hamlet's  intentions  by  her  brother.  Her  father  then 
tells  her  that  he  has  been  told  that  she  has  been  *  most  free  and  bounteous  * 
in  her  audience  of  him,  that  it  has  been  brought  to  his  attention  '  in  way  of 
caution,'  that  he  fears  for  her  honor,  and  demands  that  she  give  up  the 
truth.  She  insists  that  Hamlet  has  *  made  many  tenders  of  his  affection  ' 
to  her.  The  father  ridicules  the  idea  and  insists  that  Hamlet  is  not  sincere. 
She  insists  that  Hamlet  has  importuned  her  '  with  love  in  honorable  fashion.' 
The  father  tells  her  that  these  vows  are  but  '  implorators  of  unholy  suits,' 
and  commands  her  to  have  no  further  *  words  or  talk  with  the  lord  Hamlet.' 
She  obeys.  In  the  interval  between  the  first  and  second  acts,  Hamlet  sends 
her  love  epistles.  They  are  returned.  He  tries  to  see  her.  She  denies 
him  audience.  At  the  opening  of  the  second  act,  he  has  forced  himself 
into  her  presence,  and  in  telling  her  father  of  the  fright  he  caused  her,  she 
says  that  *  he  falls  to  such  perusal  of  my  face,  as  he  would  draw  it,'  but 
said  nothing.  The  only  sound  that  passed  his  lips  was  '  a  sigh  so  piteous 
and  profound,  that  it  did  seem  to  shatter  all  his  bulk  and  end  his  being.' 

Now  comes  the  interesting  phase  that  Ophelia  henceforth  plays  in 
Hamlet's  *  antic  disposition.'  Hamlet's  disposition  has  already  been 
causing  the  king  concern,  as  has  been  indicated  by  the  sending  for  the  school- 
mates. Polonius  goes  direct  to  the  king  with  his  discovery  of  Hamlet's 
trouble.  While  he  is  with  the  king,  Hamlet  enters,  reading,  and,  with 
Hamlet  in  their  presence,  the  lord  chamberlain  excitedly  beseeches  the  king 


JAMES  M.  STREET  471 

and  queen  to  away  in  order  that  he  can  '  board  '  Hamlet.  It  would  be 
illogical  to  say  that  Hamlet,  concealing  himself  with  his  *  antic  disposition  ' 
for  the  only  purpose  of  more  keenly  observing  the  actions  of  the  king  and 
his  spies,  did  not  notice  the  excitement  his  presence  caused.  It  would  be 
illogical  to  say  that  the  king,  possessing  more  mental  ballast  than  any  of 
the  others,  to  say  nothing  of  having  more  at  stake  and  knowing  the  aged 
courtier  to  be  more  sententious  and  meddling  than  wise,  did  not  keep 
within  sight  and  hearing  of  every  act  and  word  of  Hamlet  in  this  scene  with 
Polonius.  Hamlet  twits  him  about  his  honesty,  then  startles  the  general 
presence  with  the  statement,  '  To  be  honest,  as  this  world  goes,  is  to  be  one 
man  picked  out  of  two  thousand,'  banters  the  old  man  about '  a  god  kissing 
carrion,'  and  then  suddenly  asks  him  about  his  daughter.  Then  he  banters 
him  about  her  honor.  Polonius  is  thus  thrown  entirely  off  the  real  scent. 
But  the  king  can  see  what  Hamlet  thinks  of  Polonius  and,  what  is  more  to 
the  point,  that  Hamlet  discriminates  severely  between  the  counterfeit  and 
the  genuine  coin  in  human  nature. 

Hamlet  does  not  meet  Ophelia  again  until  the  scene  of  the  soliloquy. 
The  king  indulges  this  scene  because  he  must  indulge  Polonius.  But  he 
is  also  anxious  to  have  every  opportunity  to  study  the  manner  and  the 
speech  of  Hamlet.  Hamlet  may  drop  something  inadvertently  that  will 
give  him  a  key  to  the  situation.  He  gets  it  in  this  scene,  but  in  a  way  that 
startles  him  from  his  generally  well-mastered  composure  of  mind  and  conduct. 

Hamlet  knows  that  Ophelia  is  impossible  for  him  because  of  her 
father.  The  only  way  we  know  this  is  by  Hamlet's  actions,  and  his  speech 
with  her  father.  He  has  had  no  notice  that  her  father  is  the  cause  of  her 
repelling  his  letters  and  denying  him  access.  She  has  not  told  him  anything. 
He  has  not  asked  her  anything.  And  yet,  it  is  apparent,  in  the  way  he 
threw  himself  into  her  presence  and  silently  searched  her  soul,  leaving  her 
with  an  unheaving  resignation  that  settled  the  question  with  him,  that  her 
nature  to  him  was  transparent,  unsophisticated,  shallow.  He  regarded 
her  as  a  frail  girl,  a  tool  in  the  hands  of  that  *  wretched,  rash,  intruding 
fool,'  her  father. 

Ophelia  is  to  walk  where  she  will  attract  Hamlet's  attention.  He  is 
not  supposed  to  be  expecting  her  there.  She  is  expected  to  draw  his  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  of  her  presence.  She  is  a  decoy.  She  is  acting  a  part  at 
the  command  of  her  father.  Hamlet  enters.  She  fails  to  capture  his 
notice  until  he  has  finished  the  soliloquy  in  full,  heaped,  and  rounded  meas- 
ure.    Then  he  says, 

'  Soft  you,  now! 
The  fair  Ophelia!     Nymph,  in  thy  orisons 
Be  all  my  sins  remember'd.' 


472  A  NEW  HAMLET  QUERY 

If  Hamlet  was  aware  of  the  presence  of  her  father  and  the  king,  this 
introduction  has  an  effect  Hamlet  desires,  gratifies  Polonius.  Ophelia 
asks  about  his  health  '  this  many  a  day.'  It  is  '  well,  well,  well.'  She 
informs  him  that  she  has  remembrances  that  she  desires  to  return.  He 
replies,  *  No,  no.  I  never  gave  you  aught.'  The  play  between  them  is 
on.  It  is  more  trying  to  her  than  it  is  to  Hamlet,  and  yet  it  is  more  trying 
to  him  as  it  was  lived  in  the  mind  of  the  poet,  than  we  can  fully  appreciate. 
One  must  needs  have  the  genius  and  the  soul  of  the  great  world  in  which 
this  scene  had  its  birth  and  its  life  to  be  able  to  do  it  exact  justice.  If 
Hamlet  knew  of  Ophelia's  presence,  he  naturally  did  not  know  what  aggres- 
sive deception,  if  any,  she  was  going  to  play.  That  she  had  an  attraction 
for  him  cannot  be  gainsaid.  The  exact  nature  of  it  causes  us  some  doubt 
and  perplexity.  He  seems  to  have  made  no  effort  to  wean  her  from  her 
father.  Certain  it  is,  unlike  Desdemona  or  Imogen,  she  seems  to  be  more 
conscious  of  being  loved  than  loving.  Her  love  of  Hamlet  seems  to  be 
extremely  negative  or  passive.  She  seems  to  have  no  power  to  arouse 
herself  in  his  defense.  He  seems  to  act  towards  her  in  recognition  of  this 
hopeless  fact.  But  he  speaks  of  her  to  her  father,  scandalously.  True,  he 
later  exclaims  that '  forty  thousand  brothers  could  not,  with  all  their  quantity 
of  love,  make  up,'  the  sum  of  his  love  for  Ophelia.  But  he  afterwards 
says  that  he  was  in  a  '  towering  rage  '  with  Laertes  when  he  said  this.  And 
it  is  a  significant  fact  that  immediately  after  Laertes  warns  her  to  fear  '  his 
unmaster'd  importunity,'  Hamlet  goes  into  '  continual  practice  '  fencing. 
Did  he  learn  of  this  warning  ?  If  so,  how  .''  Or  did  he  only  suspicion  it  ? 
What  is  the  psychological  cause  of  such  a  suspicion  .'' 

At  any  rate,  when  he  tells  her  that  he  has  never  given  her  any  gifts, 
his  wits  must  have  been  sharpened  for  developments.  His  perception  must 
have  been  quickened  in  a  study  of  the  part  she  was  playing.  And  when 
she  insists  that  he  did  give  her  gifts,  and  reminds  him  of  the  words  '  of  so 
sweet  breath  composed  as  made  the  things  more  rich,'  and  then,  adding 
insult  to  injury,  tells  him  that  their  perfume  has  been  lost,  not  by  the  conduct 
of  her  father,  not  by  her  desertion  of  him,  but  by  his  own  conduct,  is  it  any 
wonder  that  he  exclaimed, '  Ha,  ha!  are  you  honest  ?  ' 

It  has  been  claimed  that  this  remark  was  caused  by  Polonius  fidgeting 
and  Hamlet  becoming  aware  for  the  first  time  of  the  fact  that  he  was  being 
overheard.  It  has  been  said  that  he  spied  the  eavesdroppers  for  the  first 
time  and  that  this  is  the  explanation  of  this  remark.  Irrespective  of 
the  fact  that  he  knew  of  her  presence  from  the  time  he  first  came  upon 
this  scene,  irrespective  of  the  fact  whether  he  knew  all  along  that  she  was 
simply  there  as  a  decoy,  his  ejaculation  was  as  natural  as  his  ejaculation 
in  the  first  act,  *  O  my  prophetic  soul!  mine  uncle!  ' 


JAMES  M.  STREET  473 

Ophelia  remonstrates,  '  My  lord  ? '  It  would  be  interesting  to  know 
just  whatwasher  actual  condition  of  mind  and  soul  at  that  moment.  Hamlet 
asks,  '  Are  you  fair  ?  '  She  is  lost,  she  is  hurt,  she  is  indignant,  she  is 
frightened.  '  What  means  your  lordship  .'' '  Hamlet  replies,  '  That  if  you 
be  honest  and  fair,  your  honesty  should  admit  no  discourse  to  your  beauty.' 

Ophelia. —  Could  beauty,  my  lord,  have  better  commerce  than  with 
honesty  ? 

Hamlet. —  Ay,  truly;  for  the  power  of  beauty  will  sooner  transform 
honesty  from  what  it  is  to  bawd,  than  the  force  of  honesty  can  translate 
beauty  into  his  likeness:  this  was  sometime  a  paradox,  but  now  the  time 
gives  it  proof.     I  did  love  you  once. 

Ophelia. —  Indeed,  my  lord,  you  made  me  believe  so. 

Hamlet. —  You  should  not  have  believed  me:  for  virtue  cannot  so 
inoculate  our  old  stock,  but  we  shall  relish  of  it:  I  loved  you  not. 

Ophelia. —  I  was  the  more  deceived. 

Hamlet. —  Get  thee  to  a  nunnery;  why  wouldst  thou  be  a  breeder  of 
sinners  ?  I  am  myself  indifferent  honest;  but  yet  I  could  accuse  me  of 
such  things,  that  it  were  better  my  mother  had  not  borne  me;  I  am  very 
proud,  revengeful,  ambitious,  with  more  offenses  at  my  beck  than  I  have 
thoughts  to  put  them  in,  imagination  to  give  them  shape,  or  time  to  act 
them  in.  What  should  such  fellows  as  I  do  crawling  between  heaven  and 
earth  ?  We  are  arrant  knaves,  all;  believe  none  of  us.  Go  thy  ways  to  a 
nunnery. 

There  is  something  in  all  of  this  intended  for  no  one  but  Ophelia  and 
himself.  He  is  struggling  with  himself  and  her.  He  is  not  aiming  so  much 
that  she  shall  clearly  understand  as  that  he  shall  free  himself  of  her.  He 
throws  some  plain  truths  at  her  and  in  throwing  off  some  half-truths  of 
himself,  seeks  to  settle  himself  so  as  not  to  lose  his  proper  adjustment  with 
the  eavesdroppers.  His  next  word  is  a  fling  more  at  the  king  than  at  her 
father.  He  suddenly  asks,  '  Where's  your  father  ?  '  Now  she  is  frightened, 
not  because  she  thinks  Hamlet  knows  of  the  presence  of  her  father,  not 
because  she  thinks  she  has  seen  him,  but  because  she  must  lie  worse  than 
ever.  It  can  well  be  imagined  the  subdued  and  trembling  tone  in  which 
she  replies,  *  At  home,  my  lord.' 

Then  Hamlet  takes  another  fling,  not  at  Polonius,  but  at  the  king. 
Ophelia's  answer  called  for  no  reply.  But  he  volunteers  the  comment  for 
the  benefit  of  the  king,  '  Let  the  doors  be  shut  upon  him,  that  he  may  play 
the  fool  nowhere  but  in  's  own  house.     Farewell.' 

And  then  she  gives  up.  Hamlet's  '  noble  and  most  sovereign  reason, 
like  sweet  bells  jangled,'  are  '  out  of  tune  and  harsh.'     He  is  '  quite,  quite 


474  A  NEW  HAMLET  QUERY 

down!  '  Ophelia  is  losing  her  mind.  The  strain  has  been  too  much. 
She  exclaims,  *  Oh,  help  him,  you  sweet  heavens!  ' 

Hamlet  returns.  He  flings  this  at  her,  '  If  thou  dost  marry,  I'll  give 
thee  this  plague  for  thy  dowry:  be  thou  as  chaste  as  ice,  as  pure  as  snow, 
thou  shalt  not  escape  calumny.  Get  thee  to  a  nunnery,  go;  farewell.  Or, 
if  thou  wilt  needs  marry,  marry  a  fool;  for  wise  men  know  well  enough 
what  monsters  you  make  of  them.  To  a  nunnery,  go;  and  quickly  too. 
Farewell,' 

Ophelia. —  O  heavenly  powers,  restore  him! 

Hamlet. —  I  have  heard  of  your  paintings  too,  well  enough.  God  hath 
given  you  one  face,  and  you  make  yourselves  another;  you  jig,  vou  amble, 
and  you  lisp,  and  nickname  God's  creatures,  and  make  your  wantonness 
your  ignorance:  goto,  I  '11  no  more  on  't;  it  hath  made  me  mad.  I  say,  we 
will  have  no  more  marriages:  those  that  are  married  already,  all  but  one, 
shall  live;  the  rest  shall  keep  as  they  are.     To  a  nunnery,  go.' 

Now,  we  have  gone  through  this  scene  with  Ophelia  entire  to  show 
that  his  aflPections  did  tend  towards  love,  that  it  reveals  an  inner  struggle 
of  Ophelia's  delicate  fragrance  of  femininity  in  him,  that  he  strives  to  free 
himself  of  its  dangerous  influence  with  him, —  dangerous  because  it  diverts 
him  from  and  imperils  his  real  responsibilities.  He  is  nervous,  unstrung, 
abruptly  leaves  her  after  each  fling,  seeks  with  an  almost  desperate  effort 
to  grasp  and  keep  control  of  the  situation  with  the  eavesdroppers,  and  suc- 
ceeds, partially  on  account  of  Ophelia's  fascination,  in  making  the  impres- 
sion on  Polonius  that  she  has  made  him  mad,  and  at  the  same  time  winding 
up  with  a  shot  for  the  king,  granting  life  to  all  that  are  married,  *  all  hut  one.' 
Let  us  go  back  and  inquire  into  another  phase  of  the  condition 
of  Hamlet's  mind  at  the  time  he  originally  enters  this  scene.  Let  us  de- 
termine his  interest  at  this  time  in,  and  the  necessities  of,  the  success  of 
the  experiment  with  the  king  in  the  court  play  to  be  given  the  evening  of 
this  day.     The  day  before  he  has  engaged  the  players.     Hamlet  has  heard, 

*  That  guilty  creatures,  sitting  at  a  play. 
Have  by  the  very  cunning  of  the  scene 
Been  struck  so  to  the  soul,  that  presently 
They  have  proclaimed  their  malefactions; 
For  murder,  though  it  have  no  tongue,  will  speak 
With  most  miraculous  organ.' 

So  he  concludes  that  he  will  have  the  players 


JAMES  M.  STREET  475 

*  Play  something  like  the  murder  of  my  father 
Before  mine  uncle:  Til  observe  his  looks; 
Til  tent  him  to  the  quick;  if  he  but  blench 
I  know  my  course.' 

And  then  he  questions,  as  he  questions  with  Horatio,  the  reality  of  his 
experience  with  the  spirit  of  his  father.  He  subjects  the  influence  of  the 
ghost  to  a  rigid  test  in  his  mind.  It  has  affected  him  deeply,  but  he  is  de- 
termined to  '  have '  grounds  more  relative  than  this  '  unverified  testimony 
of  a  departed  spirit.'  His  prophetic  soul  tells  him  his  uncle  is  guilty.  The 
play's  the  thing  wherein  he'll  catch  his  conscience  if  he  is  guilty.  But 
there  is  a  good  deal  to  be  considered  in  order  to  make  such  an  experiment 
successful.  The  play  must  not  only  be  rendered  with  force  and  fidelity, 
but  the  king's  state  of  mind  and  nerves  must  be  weakened,  his  fears  must 
be  put  on  edge,  his  soul  must  be  filled  with  doubt  and  dread,  a  horror  of 
the  *  something  after  death  '  must  be  quickened  and  aroused  in  him. 

So  Hamlet  not  only  writes  a  *  dozen  or  sixteen  lines  '  to  be  inserted  into 
the  play,  he  not  only  pronounces  these  lines  'trippingly  on  the  tongue  '  for 
the  instruction  and  inspiration  of  the  players,  he  not  only  gives  them  earnest 
and  exquisite  advice  on  the  general  '  purpose  of  playing,'  of  the  principles 
to  observe  and  the  practices  to  guard  against,  but  it  would  be  illogical  to 
say  that  this  experiment,  this  problem  with  all  that  it  involves,  was  not  his 
dominating  thought,  his  enthralling  interest,  his  all-absorbing  mental 
occupation,  when  he  entered  the  presence  of  Ophelia,  paid  no  attention 
to  her  efibrt  to  attract  his  notice,  and  feeling  in  an  inexpressible  degree 
that  indefinable  something  that  orators  call  presence,  began  in  a  low, 
measured,  penetrating,  distracting  tone,  that  celebrated  speech  of  *  To  be, 
or  not  to  be.'  It  would  be  illogical,  in  the  sensitive  and  important  connec- 
tion of  this  scene  with  the  scene  that  followed  that  evening  and  the  scene 
of  the  day  before,  to  say  that  Hamlet  was  depressed  and  that  the  speech 
expresses  his  own  soul-sickness  which  he  endures  only  because  he  prefers 
the  ills  of  this  world  to  '  the  something  after  death.'  It  is  illogical  to  say 
that  he  was  grunting  and  sweating  '  under  a  weary  life  '  when  it  is  apparent 
that  the  day  before  he  thoroughly  enjoyed  his  easy  superiority  over  his 
schoolmates,  and  the  evening  of  the  very  day  of  this  alleged  plaint,  he  thor- 
oughly enjoys  his  vindicated  hold  on  the  fears  of  the  king.  Why,  he  can 
hardly  contain  himself,  so  amused  is  he  at  the  overwhelming  discomfiture 
of  the  king.     He  orders  music,  to  calm  his  jubilant  spirits. 

It  is  logical  to  say  that  he  was  not  only  interested,  curious,  anxious  to 
live,  at  the  time  he  enters  the  presence  of  Ophelia,  because  the  trap  he  is 


476  A  NEW  HAMLET  QUERY 

preparing  in  the  trap  prepared  for  him,  is  fascinating  in  its  possible  effective- 
ness of  capturing  the  victim,  but  he  considered  that  in  order  to  make  this 
possible  effectiveness  more  promising,  he  must  not  himself  betray  any 
weakness  with  the  king,  he  must  do  everything  he  naturally  and  easily 
could  to  increase  the  king's  doubt  and  dread  of  him.  Studied  in  this 
light,  the  speech  of  '  To  be,  or  not  to  be '  suggests  to  the  student  that  Hamlet 
at  this  time  was  not  only  not  thinking  of  himself,  that  he  was  not  only  pos- 
sessed of  a  masked  alertness  for  spies,  that  he  was  not  only  keeping  his 
thoughts  engaged  with  the  weaknesses  and  intentions  of  the  king,  but  the 
speech  itself  suggests  not  only  how  contradictory  it  is  of  Hamlet's  condition 
of  spirit  and  mind  at  this  time,  but  how  perfectly  it  expresses  that  which 
the  king  tries  to  still  in  his  own  mind,  a  plain,  philosophical,  penetrating 
suggestion  of  the  mystery  of  '  the  something  after  death  '  balanced  against 
*  the  oppressor's  wrong,'  '  the  law's  delay,'  '  the  insolence  of  office,'  '  the 
proud  man's  contumely,' —  suggestions  that  come  from  the  lips  of  the  son 
of  the  man  that  the  king  murdered,  from  the  lips  of  him  upon  whom  the  king 
is  spying  because  he  is  inclined  to  think  that  Hamlet  knows  more  and  means 
more  than  he  pretends.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  these  subtle  shafts  upset  the 
king  .^     Is  it  any  wonder  that  the  king  became  absorbed  with  his  own  fears  } 

In  the  mind  of  the  great  poet  Hamlet  is  more  than  a  match  for  the 
king.  Hamlet  not  only  considers  himself  so,  but  at  every  step  throughout 
the  play  he  shows  himself  to  be  so.  Every  trap  that  the  king  sets  for  Hamlet 
Hamlet  transforms  into  a  plague  of  the  king  until  the  king  finally  exclaims, 
'  Like  the  hectic  in  my  blood  he  rages.'  This  being  true,  to  consider  the 
speech  in  controversy  as  a  soliloquy  not  only  reveals  a  soul  sick  of  the 
world,  a  mind  devoid  of  interest  in  human  affairs,  nauseated  with  every- 
body and  everything,  without  ambition  or  purpose,  harmless,  but  it  reveals 
such  a  soul  revealing  such  a  condition  to  an  enemy  that  has  regarded  this 
soul  as  possessed  of  a  knowledge  and  a  purpose  that  threatened  this  enemy's 
welfare.  Consider  the  speech  as  intended  for  the  ears  of  this  enemy,  and 
you  see  the  enemy  being  directly  addressed  without  appearing  to  be  ad- 
dressed, directly  because  of  the  unerring  pointedness  of  some  of  the  remarks, 
made  more  pointed  and  piercing  by  the  penetrating  and  peculiar  tone  and 
inflection  with  which  some  suggestions  of  the  speech  are  released.  It  is  as 
if  Hamlet  was  talking  directly  to  the  king  through  the  muffled  and  misunder- 
standing mind  of  Polonius  and  Ophelia. 

If  the  poet  had  intended  the  speech  as  a  soliloquy,  he  could  easily  have 
arranged  it  so  that  this  superior  mind  could  have  given  vent  to  the  baring 
of  his  soul,  alone,  instead  of  in  the  presence  of  his  deadly  enemy,  at  a  time 
when  Hamlet  is  intent  upon  weakening  the  nerves  of  his  enemy  by  fanning 
his  doubts  and  dreads  into  flame. 


JAMES  M.  STREET  477 

Whether  the  mental  tension  is  better  sustained,  considering  the  speech 
as  a  soHloquy,  or  better  sustained  as  a  speech  that  Hamlet  meant  for  the 
king's  ears,  and  that  the  king  so  understood  his  meaning,  certain  it  is  that 
the  effect  of  the  speech  or  the  effect  of  what  he  said  to  Ophelia,  or  both,  was 
upheaving  with  the  king.     When  Hamlet  enters,  see  the  king's  nerves  in 
a  poor  state.     They  are  easily  upset.     A  little  remark  from  '  the  great 
baby,'  Polonius,  causes  the  king  a  start,  '  How  smart  a  lash  that  speech 
doth  give  my  conscience.'     He  is  fast  tending  toward  that  condition  when 
he  makes  vain  and  desperate  efforts  to  lighten  his  '  heavy  burthen  '  in  an 
appeal  on  bended  knees  to  '  the  sweet  heavens,'  only  to  find  that  there  is 
not  rain  enough  there  to  wash  his  *  cursed  hand.'     At  the  close  of  the  scene 
in  controversy,  the  burthen  is  heavier,  the  nerves  are  weaker,  the  dread  of 
Hamlet  more  intense.     His  fears  have  taken  complete  possession  of  him. 
It  is  an  interesting  contemplation, —  the  speculative  emotions  and  mental 
images  in  the  soul  of  the  king  as  he  listens  and  watches  each  word  and  move 
of  Hamlet  from  the  time  he  enters  with  the  '  soliloquy  '  in  his  soul  till  he 
flings  his  last  word  at  Ophelia.     We  know  his  interest.     We  know  Hamlet's 
interest.     We  know  they  are  playing  a  masked  game  with  each  other,  and 
that  while  the  king  is  crafty  and  cunning,  he  is  also  suspicious  and  super- 
stitious, and  Hamlet  knows  the  nature  of  the  king,  but  he  keeps  the  king  in 
ignorance  of  his  knowledge,  its  source,  his  purposes,  at   the    same    time 
keeping  the  king's  suspicions  and  fears  aroused.     In  no  other  scene  in  the 
entire  play  is  there  such  a  necessity  for  this  idea  of  the  natures  and  relative 
attitudes  of  the  king  and  Hamlet,  to  be  maintained,  as  in  the  scene  under 
consideration.     The  success  of  this  exciting  doubt  and  dread  is  necessary 
to  the  success  of  the  delicate,  psychological  trap  in  the  court  play  to  be 
given  before  the  king  that  evening.     The  student  fully  to  appreciate  the 
force  and  meaning  of  the  '  soliloquy,'  must  keep  in  mind  the  presence  of  the 
king,  his  interest,  thoughts,  emotions,  and  the  interest  that  Hamlet  has  in 
the  king  and  in  a  stong  budding  purpose  in  his  own  life  that  he  expects 
to  burst  into  full  bloom  that  evening  if  no  blasting  environment  interferes. 
So,  when  the  king,  seemingly  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  Polonius, 
exclaims  that  Hamlet  is  not  affected  neither  by  love  nor  madness,  contra- 
dicting in  both  respects  what  Ophelia  has  just  said,  and  contradicting  what 
the  king  would  have  known  in  a  calm  mood  that  Polonius  would  say  and 
did  say,  the  student  cannot  ignore  the  fact  that  the  effect  of  the  *  soliloquy  ' 
must  be  taken  into  consideration  as  well  as  the  talk  with  Ophelia  as  being 
apparent  in  this  speech  of  the  king's.     As  a  soliloquy,  the  speech   reveals 
Hamlet  as  harmless,  and,  more  important  still,  subject  to  the  traps  of  the 
king.     And  yet  the  king,  in  his  panic,  decides  that  there  is  something  in 


478  A  NEW  HAMLET  QUERY 

Hamlet's  soul  o'er  which  his  melancholy  sits  on  brood,  the  hatch  and 
disclose  of  which  means  danger,  and  so  in  quick  determination  he  sets  it 
down  that  this  dangerous  but  rational  man  must  speed  to  England,  for  the 
collection  of  their  neglected  tribute.  Did  the  king  think  of  the  necessity  of 
an  excuse  prior  to  the  relief,  the  decision  to  make  a  quick  disposition  of 
Hamlet,  afforded  him  ?  And  then,  and  not  until  then,  he  is  reminded  of 
the  presence  of  Polonius,  defers  to  him,  accepts  his  suggestion.  And  that 
evening  Hamlet  tells  his  mother  of  the  voyage  to  England.  How  did  he 
learn  of  it }  Did  he  play  eavesdropper  to  the  eavesdroppers  ^  Was  he  not 
afraid  she  would  tell  the  king  that  he  knew  of  the  contemplated  '  em- 
bassy,' but  that  he  mistrusted  its  object  ? 

Space  forbids  us  dwelling  upon  Hamlet's  attitude  towards  '  the  some- 
thing after  death,'  as  suggested  in  the  two  soliloquies  in  the  First  Act,  before 
and  after  the  murder  of  his  father  disturbed  his  mind;  the  risk  he  took  in 
the  voyage  to  England,  the  deliberate  plans  he  made  to  be  overtaken  in  that 
voyage,  the  risk  he  took  in  his  deliberate  return  to  Denmark  instead  of  en- 
listing the  help  of  Norway  with  the  legal  proof  he  had  of  the  king's  design 
on  his  life,  his  attitude  towards  '  the  something  after  death  '  as  suggested 
by  his  expressions  preceding  the  scene  with  the  ghost  in  the  First  Act  and 
preceding  the  duel  in  the  Fifth  Act,  the  contradiction  of  the  '  soliloquy  '  in 
the  ghost  as  a  traveler  returned  from  the  bourne  of '  the  undiscover'd  coun- 
try '  ;  the  moral  courage  that  contradicts  conscience  making  a  coward  of 
Hamlet  as  suggested  by  the  scene  with  the  ghost,  the  court  play  before  the 
king,  his  conduct  after  killing  Polonius  and  after  consigning  his  school- 
mates to  the  fate  of  the  employment  to  which  they  did  make  love,  his  apology 
to  Laertes  to  avoid  the  necessity  of  a  duel,  his  saving  the  life  of  Horatio 
after  he  himself  is  in  the  throes  of  death,  his  naming  the  son  of  the  man  his 
father  killed  as  the  successor  to  the  throne  of  Denmark.  Sufficient  it  is 
for  present  purposes  that  we  have  suggested  enough  to  unsettle  the  idea  of 
the  speech  considered  as  a  soliloquy,  that  we  have  suggested  enough  to 
invite  serious  inquiry  whether  it  is  either  rational  or  dramatic  as  a  soliloquy 
and  whether,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  not  only  rational  but  intensely  dramatic, 
considered  as  a  speech  intended  to  cast  the  king  still  further  ashore  on  '  a 
sea  of  troubles.' 


THE  NEW  STAR 

By  Reinhold  Fuchs 
Translated  in  the  Original  Meter  by  Max  Batt 


A 


ROUND  a  sun  that  hundredfold  outshines 
Our  own,  and  yet  to  the  terrestrial  eye 
Appears  but  as  a  faint,  dim  point  of  light, 
Revolves  in  farthest  space  a  planet  fair, 
A  star,  w^ith  mountains  towering  into  heaven, 
With  ocean's  blue,  with  wide  gigantic  rivers 

And  cities  proud,  that  in  the  waves  of  oceans 

And  rivers  are  with  splendor  new  reflected. 

And  in  the  cities,  in  the  fields  there  stir. 

Well-nigh  innumerable,  a  race  of  creatures, 

Like  unto  ours,  but  fairer,  larger  far 

In  form  and  face  and  intellectual  power. 

They  strive,  enjoy,  rejoice,  despair;  they  dream 

Of  future  happiness,  eternal  fame. 

They  walk  in  confidence  upon  the  soil 

From  which  they  sprang,  which  gives  them  sustenance, 

Which  bears  their  huts  and  all  their  palaces. 

Then  comes  a  day  when  bloody  red  there  breaks 

Through  livid  clouds  the  light  from  heaven  above, 

Alarming  sultriness,  oppressing  heart 

And  mind,  sinks  down  upon  all  living  things. 

And  now  .''     What  hollow  rumbling,  big  with  ruin, 

Reverberates  the  quiet  ?     See,  the  ground 

Is  quaking,  walls  are  trembling,  bursting,  falling, 

And  mountain  summits   reeling  into  valleys. 

As  ague  shakes  the  fever  patient,  so 

There  twitches  through  the  planet's  giant  body 

Convulsion ;  suddenly  the  ground  opes  up 

At  hundred  points  at  once;  arises  boiling 

The  surging,  heaving  mass  of  molten  rock. 

Of  ore  white  glowing,  sulphur  fume  enwrapped 

With  scorching  blaze  both  field  and  wood  and  meadow 

479 


48o  THE  NEW  STAR 

Deep  burying,  and  oceans  turning  steam, 
Consuming  huts  and  gorgeous  royal  castles. 
Proud  marble  halls  and  lofty  temples,  too. 
With  all  the  crowns  and  scepters,  priests,  and  altars. 

The  works  of  thinkers  and  of  artists  all 

The  selfsame  hour  in  ashes  are  dissolved, 

And  not  a  trace  of  their  existence  bides — 

In  universal  space  unheard  resounds 

The  dying  shriek  of  thousand  million  beings. 

And  —  silently  a  desolate  fire  ball  rolls 

Bright  glowing  through  the  chilly  heavenly  waste, 

Till  slowly  it  congeals  and  turns  black  dross. 

—  Three  years  pass  by;  upon  the  earth  there  sits 

In  quiet  watch-tower  an  astronomer. 

With  powerful  tube  surveying  the  horizon. 

Then  sudden,  like  a  flitting  flash  of  joy, 

His  serious  face  convulsed  with  motion  seems, 

And  long,  with  straining  eye,  he  gazes  there 

Upon  one  point.     Then  takes  the  pencil  he 

And  calmly  writes  this  telegram :   '  Just  now 

Discovered  was  through  telescope  by  me 

In  contsellation  of  Andromeda 

A  new  star,  glowing  dim,  twelfth  magnitude.' 


Date  Due 

PRINTED  IN  U.S.A.                  CAT 

NO.  24    161 

(^ 

UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  764  854     6 


